OF 


NOTTING  HILL 


01  BERT  K.  CHEST   RTON 


L 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELLS 


The  Napoleon  of  Netting  Hill 


IN  THE   DARK  ENTRANCE  THERE  APPEARED   A   FLAMING   FIGURE 


THE    NAPOLEON 


NOTTING    HILL 


By 
GILBERT    K.    CHESTERTON 

Author  of  "HERETICS" 


With  Seven  Illustrations  by 
WILLIAM  GRAHAM  ROBERTSON 
and  a  Map  of  the  Seat  of  War 


NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON  :  JOHN   LANE  :  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 


MCMVI 


Copyright   1 904 
By  JOHN  LANE 

Copyright  1906 
By  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  Electrotyped  by 
William  G.  Hewitt,  New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


College 

library 

p  fp 


TO  HILAIRE  BELLOC 


For  every  tiny  town  or  place 
God  made  the  stars  especially  ; 
Babies  look  up  with  owlish  face 
And  see  them  tangled  in  a  tree  : 
You  saw  a  moon  from  Sussex  Downs, 
A  Sussex  moon,  untravelled  still, 
I  saw  a  moon  that  was  the  town1  s, 
The  largest  lamp  on  Campden  Hill. 

Tea  ;  Heaven  is  everywhere  at  home 
The  big  blue  cap  that  always  Jits, 
And  so  it  is  (be  calm  ;  they  come 
To  goal  at  last,  my  wandering  wits), 
So  is  it  with  the  heroic  thing  ; 
This  shall  not  end  for  the  world's  end 
And  though  the  sullen  engines  swing, 
Be  you  not  much  afraid,  my  friend. 

This  did  not  end  by  Nelson*  s  urn 
Where  an  immortal  England  sits — 
Nor  where  your  tall  young  men  in  turn 
Drank  death  like  wine  at  Austerlitz. 
And  when  the  pedants  bade  us  mark 
What  cold  mechanic  happenings 
Must  come  ;  our  souls  said  in  the  dark, 
"  Belike  ;  but  there  are  likelier  things. " 
7 


20R41 G9 


Dedication 


Likelier  across  these  fiats  afar 
These  sulky  levels  smooth  and  free 
The  drums  shall  crash  a  waltz  of  war 
And  Death  shall  dance  with  Liberty  ; 
Likelier  the  barricades  shall  blare 
Slaughter  below  and  smoke  above, 
And  death  and  hate  and  bell  declare 
That  men  have  found  a  thing  to  love. 

Far  from  your  sunny  uplands  set 
1  saw  the  dream  ;  the  streets  I  trod 
The  lit  straight  streets  shot  out  and  met 
The  starry  streets  that  point  to  God. 
This  legend  of  an  epic  hour 
A  child  I  dreamed,  and  dream  it  still, 
Under  the  great  grey  water-tower 
That  strikes  the  stars  on  Camp  den  Hill. 

G.  K. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK    I 

Chapter  Page 
I.     INTRODUCTORY    REMARKS    ON    THE    ART    OF 

PROPHECY 13 

II.     THE  MAN  IN  GREEN 21 

III.     THE  HILL  OF  HUMOUR 49 

BOOK    II 

I.     THE  CHARTER  OF  THE  CITIES 65 

II.     THE  COUNCIL  OF  THE  PROVOSTS     ....  82 

III.     ENTER  A  LUNATIC 102 

BOOK    III 

I.     THE  MENTAL  CONDITION  OF  ADAM  WAYNE  .  125 

II.      THE  REMARKABLE  MR.   TURNBULL       .      .      .  147 

III.     THE  EXPERIMENT  OF  MR.    BUCK    .      .      .      .  163 

9 


Contents 


BOOK    IV 

Chapter  Page 

I.     THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  LAMPS 189 

H .     THE     CORRESPONDENT      OF     "  THE     COURT 

JOURNAL" 208 

III.     THE    GREAT    ARMY     OF     SOUTH     KENSING- 
TON .     .     .     .     , 224 

BOOK    V 

I.     THE  EMPIRE  OF  NOTTING  HILL    ....     259 

II.     THE  LAST  BATTLE 279 

III.     Two  VOICES 291 


10 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


IN    THE    DARK    ENTRANCE    THERE    APPEARED    A  FLAMING 

FIGURE          ....        Frontispiece 

Facing  page 
ClTY  MEN  OUT  ON  ALL  FOURS  IN   A    FIELD    COVERED 

WITH  VEAL  CUTLETS                 .  .  I  6 

'I'M  KING  OF  THE  CASTLE*                 .  .  .70 

'I  BRING  HOMAGE  TO  MY  KING*  .  I  04 

MAP  OF  THE  SEAT  OF  WAR                 .  .  .      1 90 

KING   AUBERON  DESCENDED  FROM  THE  OMNIBUS  WITH 

DIGNITY  .  .  .  .  .220 

'A  FINE  EVENING,  SIR,'  SAID  THE  CHEMIST  .      264 

' WAYNE,  IT  WAS  ALL  A  JOKE'  .  .      296 


BOOK   I 


THE    NAPOLEON 
OF  NOTTING  HILL 

CHAPTER  I — Introductory  Remarks  on  the 
Art  of  Prophecy 

THE  human  race,  to  which  so  many  of 
my  readers  belong,  has  been  playing 
at  children's  games  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  will  probably  do  it  till  the  end,  which 
is  a  nuisance  for  the  few  people  who  grow 
up.  And  one  of  the  games  to  which  it  is 
most  attached  is  called,  "Keep  to-morrow 
dark,"  and  which  is  also  named  (by  the 
rustics  in  Shropshire,  I  have  no  doubt)  "Cheat 
the  Prophet."  The  players  listen  very  care- 
fully and  respectfully  to  all  that  the  clever 
men  have  to  say  about  what  is  to  happen  in 
the  next  generation.  The  players  then  wait  until 
all  the  clever  men  are  dead,  and  bury  them  nicely. 
They  then  go  and  do  something  else.  That  is 
all.  For  a  race  of  simple  tastes,  however,  it  is 
great  fun. 

For  human  beings,  being  children,  have  the 
childish  wilfulness  and  the  childish  secrecy.  And 
they  never  have  from  the  beginning  of  the 

13 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

world  done  what  the  wise  men  have  seen  to  be 
inevitable.  They  stoned  the  false  prophets,  it  is 
said;  but  they  could  have  stoned  true  prophets 
with  a  greater  and  juster  enjoyment.  Individu- 
ally, men  may  present  a  more  or  less  rational 
appearance,  eating,  sleeping,  and  scheming.  But 
humanity  as  a  whole  is  changeful,  mystical, 
fickle,  delightful.  Men  are  men,  but  Man  is  a 
woman. 

But  in  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century 
the  game  of  Cheat  the  Prophet  was  made  far 
more  difficult  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 
The  reason  was,  that  there  were  so  many 
prophets  and  so  many  prophecies,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  elude  all  their  ingenuities.  When  a 
man  did  something  free  and  frantic  and  entirely 
his  own,  a  horrible  thought  struck  him  after- 
wards; it  might  have  been  predicted.  When- 
ever a  duke  climbed  a  lamp-post,  when  a  dean 
got  drunk,  he  could  not  be  really  happy,  he 
could  not  be  certain  that  he  was  not  fulfilling  some 
prophecy.  In  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth 
century  you  could  not  see  the  ground  for  clever 
men.  They  were  so  common  that  a  stupid 
man  was  quite  exceptional,  and  when  they  found 
him,  they  followed  him  in  crowds  down  the 
street  and  treasured  him  up  and  gave  him  some 
high  post  in  the  State.  And  all  these  clever 

14 


Introductory  Remarks 


men  were  at  work  giving  accounts  of  what 
would  happen  in  the  next  age,  all  quite  clear, 
all  quite  keen-sighted  and  ruthless,  and  all  quite 
different.  And  it  seemed  that  the  good  old 
game  of  hoodwinking  your  ancestors  could  not 
really  be  managed  this  time,  because  the  ances- 
tors neglected  meat  and  sleep  and  practical  poli- 
tics, so  that  they  might  meditate  day  and 
night  on  what  their  descendants  would  be  likely 
to  do. 

But  the  way  the  prophets  of  the  twentieth 
century  went  to  work  was  this.  They  took 
something  or  other  that  was  certainly  going  on 
in  their  time,  and  then  said  that  it  would  go  on 
more  and  more  until  something  extraordinary 
happened.  And  very  often  they  added  that  in 
some  odd  place  that  extraordinary  thing  had 
happened,  and  that  it  showed  the  signs  of  the 
times. 

Thus,  for  instance,  there  were  Mr.  H.  G. 
Wells  and  others,  who  thought  that  science 
would  take  charge  of  the  future;  and  just  as  the 
motor-car  was  quicker  than  the  coach,  so  some 
lovely  thing  would  be  quicker  than  the  motor- 
car; and  so  on  for  ever.  And  there  arose  from 
their  ashes  Dr.  Ouilp,  who  said  that  a  man 
could  be  sent  on  his  machine  so  fast  round  the 
world  that  he  could  keep  up  a  long  chatty  con- 
is 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

versation  in  some  old-world  village  by  saying 
a  word  of  a  sentence  each  time  he  came  round. 
And  it  was  said  that  the  experiment  had  been 
tried  on  an  apoplectic  old  major,  who  was  sent 
round  the  world  so  fast  that  there  seemed  to  be 
(to  the  inhabitants  of  some  other  star)  a  con- 
tinuous band  round  the  earth  of  white  whiskers, 
red  complexion  and  tweeds — a  thing  like  the  ring 
of  Saturn. 

Then  there  was  the  opposite  school.  There 
was  Mr.  Edward  Carpenter,  who  thought  we 
should  in  a  very  short  time  return  to  Nature, 
and  live  simply  and  slowly  as  the  animals  do. 
And  Edward  Carpenter  was  followed  by  James 
Pickie,  D.D.  (of  Pocahontas  College),  who  said 
that  men  were  immensely  improved  by  grazing, 
or  taking  their  food  slowly  and  continuously, 
after  the  manner  of  cows.  And  he  said  that  he 
had,  with  the  most  encouraging  results,  turned 
city  men  out  on  all  fours  in  a  field  covered  with 
veal  cutlets.  Then  Tolstoy  and  the  Humani- 
tarians said  that  the  world  was  growing  more 
merciful,  and  therefore  no  one  would  ever  desire 
to  kill.  And  Mr.  Mick  not  only  became  a  vege- 
tarian, but  at  length  declared  vegetarianism 
doomed  ("shedding,"  as  he  called  it  finely,  "the 
green  blood  of  the  silent  animals"),  and  pre- 
dicted that  men  in  a  better  age  would  live  on 

16 


CITY   MEN  OUT  ON   ALL  FOURS  IN   A   FIELD  COVERED  WITH 
VEAL  CUTLETS 


Introductory  Remarks 


nothing  but  salt.  And  then  came  the  pamphlet 
from  Oregon  (where  the  thing  was  tried),  the 
pamphlet  called  "Why  should  Salt  suffer?"  and 
there  was  more  trouble. 

And  on  the  other  hand,  some  people  were 
predicting  that  the  lines  of  kinship  would  be- 
come narrower  and  sterner.  There  was  Mr. 
Cecil  Rhodes,  who  thought  that  the  one  thing  of 
the  future  was  the  British  Empire,  and  that 
there  would  be  a  gulf  between  those  who  were 
of  the  Empire  and  those  who  were  not,  between 
the  Chinaman  in  Hong  Kong  and  the  Chinaman 
outside,  between  the  Spaniard  on  the  Rock  of 
Gibraltar  and  the  Spaniard  off  it,  similar  to  the 
gulf  between  man  and  the  lower  animals.  And 
in  the  same  way  his  impetuous  friend,  Dr.  Zoppi 
("the  Paul  of  Anglo-Saxonism"),  carried  it  yet 
further,  and  held  that,  as  a  result  of  this  view, 
cannibalism  should  be  held  to  mean  eating  a 
member  of  the  Empire,  not  eating  one  of  the 
subject  peoples,  who  should,  he  said,  be  killed 
without  needless  pain.  His  horror  at  the  idea 
of  eating  a  man  in  British  Guiana  showed  how 
they  misunderstood  his  stoicism  who  thought 
him  devoid  of  feeling.  He  was,  however,  in  a 
hard  position;  as  it  was  said  that  he  had 
attempted  the  experiment,  and,  living  in  London, 
had  to  subsist  entirely  on  Italian  organ-grinders. 

17 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

And  his  end  was  terrible,  for  just  when  he  had 
begun,  Sir  Paul  Swiller  read  his  great  paper  at 
the  Royal  Society,  proving  that  the  savages  were 
not  only  quite  right  in  eating  their  enemies,  but 
right  on  moral  and  hygienic  grounds,  since  it 
was  true  that  the  qualities  of  the  enemy,  when 
eaten,  passed  into  the  eater.  The  notion  that  the 
nature  of  an  Italian  organ-man  was  irrevocably 
growing  and  burgeoning  inside  him  was  almost 
more  than  the  kindly  old  professor  could  bear. 

There  was  Mr.  Benjamin  Kidd,  who  said 
that  the  growing  note  of  our  race  would  be  the 
care  for  and  knowledge  of  the  future.  His  idea 
was  developed  more  powerfully  by  William 
Borker,  who  wrote  that  passage  which  every 
schoolboy  knows  by  heart,  about  men  in  future 
ages  weeping  by  the  graves  of  their  descendants, 
and  tourists  being  shown  over  the  scene  of  the 
historic  battle  which  was  to  take  place  some  cen- 
turies afterwards. 

And  Mr.  Stead,  too,  was  prominent,  who 
thought  that  England  would  in  the  twentieth 
century  be  united  to  America;  and  his  young 
lieutenant,  Graham  Podge,  who  included  the 
states  of  France,  Germany,  and  Russia  in  the 
American  Union,  the  State  of  Russia  being 
abbreviated  to  Ra. 

There  was  Mr.  Sidney  Webb,  also,  who  said 
18 


Introductory  Remarks 


that  the  future  would  see  a  continuously  increas- 
ing order  and  neatness  in  the  life  of  the  people, 
and  his  poor  friend  Fipps,  who  went  mad  and 
ran  about  the  country  with  an  axe,  hacking- 
branches  off  the  trees  whenever  there  were  not 
the  same  number  on  both  sides. 

All  these  clever  men  were  prophesying  with 
every  variety  of  ingenuity  what  would  happen 
soon,  and  they  all  did  it  in  the  same  way,  by 
taking  something  they  saw  'going  strong,'  as  the 
saying  is,  and  carrying  it  as  far  as  ever  their 
imagination  could  stretch.  This,  they  said,  was 
the  true  and  simple  way  of  anticipating  the 
future.  "Just  as,"  said  Dr.  Pellkins,  in  a  fine 
passage, — "just  as  when  we  see  a  pig  in  a  litter 
larger  than  the  other  pigs,  we  know  that  by  an 
unalterable  law  of  the  Inscrutable  it  will  some 
day  be  larger  than  an  elephant, — just  as  we  know, 
when  we  see  weeds  and  dandelions  growing 
more  and  more  thickly  in  a  garden,  that  they 
must,  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts,  grow  taller  than 
the  chimney-pots  and  swallow  the  house  from 
sight,  so  we  know  and  reverently  acknowledge, 
that  when  any  power  in  human  politics  has  shown 
for  any  period  of  time  any  considerable  activity, 
it  will  go  on  until  it  reaches  to  the  sky." 

And  it  did  certainly  appear  that  the  prophets 
had  put  the  people  (engaged  in  the  old  game  of 

19 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

Cheat  the  Prophet),  in  a  quite  unprecedented 
difficulty.  It  seemed  really  hard  to  do  anything 
without  fulfilling  some  of  their  prophecies. 

But  there  was,  nevertheless,  in  the  eyes  of 
labourers  in  the  streets,  of  peasants  in  the  fields, 
of  sailors  and  children,  and  especially  women,  a 
strange  look  that  kept  the  wise  men  in  a  perfect 
fever  of  doubt.  They  could  not  fathom  the 
motionless  mirth  in  their  eyes.  They  still  had 
something  up  their  sleeve;  they  were  still  playing 
the  game  of  Cheat  the  Prophet. 

Then  the  wise  men  grew  like  wild  things,  and 
swayed  hither  and  thither,  crying,  "What  can 
it  be?  What  can  it  be?  What  will  London 
be  like  a  century  hence  ?  Is  there  anything  we  have 
not  thought  of?  Houses  upside  down — more 
hygienic,  perhaps?  Men  walking  on  hands 
— make  feet  flexible,  don't  you  know?  Moon 
.  .  .  motor-cars  ...  no  heads  .  .  ."  And  so 
they  swayed  and  wondered  until  they  died  and 
were  buried  nicely. 

Then  the  people  went  and  did  what  they 
liked.  Let  me  no  longer  conceal  the  painful 
truth.  The  people  had  cheated  the  prophets  of 
the  twentieth  century.  When  the  curtain  goes 
up  on  this  story,  eighty  years  after  the 
present  date,  London  is  almost  exactly  like  what 
it  is  now. 

20 


CHAPTER    II — The  Man  in  Green 

VERY  few  words  are  needed  to  explain 
why  London,  a  hundred  years  hence, 
will  be  very  like  it  is  now,  or  rather, 
since  I  must  slip  into  a  prophetic  past,  why 
London,  when  my  story  opens,  was  very  like 
it  was  in  those  enviable  days  when  I  was  still 
alive. 

The  reason  can  be  stated  in  one  sentence.  The 
people  had  absolutely  lost  faith  in  revolutions. 
All  revolutions  are  doctrinal — such  as  the 
French  one,  or  the  one  that  introduced  Chris- 
tianity. For  it  stands  to  common  sense  that 
you  cannot  upset  all  existing  things,  customs, 
and  compromises,  unless  you  believe  in  some- 
thing outside  them,  something  positive  and 
divine.  Now,  England,  during  this  century,  lost 
all  belief  in  this.  It  believed  in  a  thing  called 
Evolution.  And  it  said,  "All  theoretic  changes 
have  ended  in  blood  and  ennui.  If  we  change, 
we  must  change  slowly  and  safely,  as  the  animals 
do.  Nature's  revolutions  are  the  only  successful 
ones.  There  has  been  no  conservative  reaction  in 
favour  of  tails." 

And  some  things  did  change.  Things  that 
were  not  much  thought  of  dropped  out  of 

21 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

sight.  Things  that  had  not  often  happened  did 
not  happen  at  all.  Thus,  for  instance,  the 
actual  physical  force  ruling  the  country,  the 
soldiers  and  police,  grew  smaller  and  smaller, 
and  at  last  vanished  almost  to  a  point.  The 
people  combined  could  have  swept  the  few 
policemen  away  in  ten  minutes:  they  did  not, 
because  they  did  not  believe  it  would  do  them 
the  least  good.  They  had  lost  faith  in  revolu- 
tions. 

Democracy  was  dead;  for  no  one  minded 
the  governing  class  governing.  England  was 
now  practically  a  despotism,  but  not  an 
hereditary  one.  Some  one  in  the  official  class 
was  made  King.  No  one  cared  how:  no  one 
cared  who.  He  was  merely  an  universal  secre- 
tary. 

In  this  manner  it  happened  that  everything 
in  London  was  very  quiet.  That  vague  and 
somewhat  depressed  reliance  upon  things  hap- 
pening as  they  have  always  happened,  which  is 
with  all  Londoners  a  mood,  had  become  an 
assumed  condition.  There  was  really  no  reason 
for  any  man  doing  anything  but  the  thing  he  had 
done  the  day  before. 

There  was  therefore  no  reason  whatever  why 
the  three  young  men  who  had  always  walked  up 
to  their  Government  office  together  should  not 

,    22 


The  Man  in  Green 


walk  up  to  it  together  on  this  particular 
wintry  and  cloudy  morning.  Everything  in  that 
age  had  become  mechanical,  and  Government 
clerks  especially.  All  those  clerks  assembled 
regularly  at  their  posts.  Three  of  those  clerks 
always  walked  into  town  together.  All  the 
neighbourhood  knew  them :  two  of  them  were 
tall  and  one  short.  And  on  this  particular 
morning  the  short  clerk  was  only  a  few  seconds 
late  to  join  the  other  two  as  they  passed  his 
gate:  he  could  have  overtaken  them  in  three 
strides ;  he  could  have  called  after  them  easily.  But 
he  did  not. 

For  some  reason  that  will  never  be  under- 
stood until  all  souls  are  judged  (if  they  are  ever 
judged;  the  idea  was  at  this  time  classed  with 
fetish  worship)  he  did  not  join  his  two  com- 
panions, but  walked  steadily  behind  them.  The 
day  was  dull,  their  dress  was  dull,  everything 
was  dull;  but  in  some  odd  impulse  he  walked 
through  street  after  street,  through  district  after 
district,  looking  at  the  backs  of  the  two  men, 
who  would  have  swung  round  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice.  Now,  there  is  a  law  written  in  the 
darkest  of  the  Books  of  Life,  and  it  is  this : 
If  you  look  at  a  thing  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  times,  you  are  perfectly  safe;  if 
you  look  at  it  the  thousandth  time,  you  are 

23 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

in  frightful  danger  of  seeing  it  for  the  first 
time. 

So  the  short  Government  official  looked  at  the 
coat-tails  of  the  tall  Government  officials,  and 
through  street  after  street,  and  round  corner  after 
corner,  saw  only  coat-tails,  coat-tails,  and  again 
coat-tails — when,  he  did  not  in  the  least  know 
why,  something  happened  to  his  eyes. 

Two  black  dragons  were  walking  backwards 
in  front  of  him.  Two  black  dragons  were  look- 
ing at  him  with  evil  eyes.  The  dragons  were 
walking  backwards  it  was  true,  but  they  kept 
their  eyes  fixed  on  him  none  the  less.  The  eyes 
which  he  saw  were,  in  truth,  only  the  two  buttons 
at  the  back  of  a  frock-coat:  perhaps  some 
traditional  memory  of  their  meaningless  character 
gave  this  half-witted  prominence  to  their 
gaze.  The  slit  between  the  tails  was  the  nose- 
line  of  the  monster:  whenever  the  tails  flapped 
in  the  winter  wind  the  dragons  licked  their 
lips.  It  was  only  a  momentary  fancy,  but  the 
small  clerk  found  it  imbedded  in  his  soul  ever 
afterwards.  He  never  could  again  think  of  men 
in  frock-coats  except  as  dragons  walking  back- 
wards. He  explained  afterwards,  quite  tactfully 
and  nicely,  to  his  two  official  friends,  that 
while  feeling  an  inexpressible  regard  for  each 
of  them  he  could  not  seriously  regard  the  face 

24 


The  Man  in  Green 


of  either  of  them  as  anything  but  a  kind  of 
tail.  It  was,  he  admitted,  a  handsome  tail — a 
tail  elevated  in  the  air.  But  if,  he  said,  any 
true  friend  of  theirs  wished  to  see  their  faces, 
to  look  into  the  eyes  of  their  soul,  that  friend 
must  be  allowed  to  walk  reverently  round 
behind  them,  so  as  to  see  them  from  the  rear. 
There  he  would  see  the  two  black  dragons  with 
the  blind  eyes. 

But  when  first  the  two  black  dragons  sprang 
out  of  the  fog  upon  the  small  clerk,  they  had 
merely  the  effect  of  all  miracles — they  changed 
the  universe.  He  discovered  the  fact  that  all 
romantics  know — that  adventures  happen  on 
dull  days,  and  not  on  sunny  ones.  When  the 
chord  of  monotony  is  stretched  most  tight,  then 
it  breaks  with  a  sound  like  song.  He  had  scarcely 
noticed  the  weather  before,  but  with  the  four  dead 
eyes  glaring  at  him  he  looked  round  and  realised 
the  strange  dead  day. 

The  morning  was  wintry  and  dim,  not  misty, 
but  darkened  with  that  shadow  of  cloud  or  snow 
which  steeps  everything  in  a  green  or  copper 
twilight.  The  light  there  is  on  such  a  day  seems 
not  so  much  to  come  from  the  clear  heavens  as 
to  be  a  phosphorescence  clinging  to  the  shapes 
themselves.  The  load  of  heaven  and  the  clouds 
is  like  a  load  of  waters,  and  the  men  move  like 

25 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

fishes,  feeling  that  they  are  on  the  floor  of  a  sea. 
Everything  in  a  London  street  completes  the 
fantasy;  the  carriages  and  cabs  themselves 
resemble  deep-sea  creatures  with  eyes  of  flame. 
He  had  been  startled  at  first  to  meet  two  dragons. 
Now  he  found  he  was  among  deep-sea  dragons 
possessing  the  deep  sea. 

The  two  young  men  in  front  were  like  the 
small  young  man  himself,  well-dressed.  The  lines 
of  their  frock-coats  and  silk  hats  had  that  luxuri- 
ant severity  which  makes  the  modern  fop,  hideous 
as  he  is,  a  favourite  exercise  of  the  modern 
draughtsman ;  that  element  which  Mr.  Max  Beer- 
bohm  has  admirably  expressed  in  speaking  of 
"certain  congruities  of  dark  cloth  and  the  rigid 
perfection  of  linen." 

They  walked  with  the  gait  of  an  affected 
snail,  and  they  spoke  at  the  longest  intervals, 
dropping  a  sentence  at  about  every  sixth  lamp- 
post. 

They  crawled  on  past  the  lamp-posts;  their 
mien  was  so  immovable  that  a  fanciful  descrip- 
tion might  almost  say,  that  the  lamp-posts 
crawled  past  the  men,  as  in  a  dream.  Then 
the  small  man  suddenly  ran  after  them  and 
said — 

"I  want  to  get  my  hair  cut.  I  say,  do  you 
know  a  little  shop  anywhere  where  they  cut  your 

26 


The  Man  in  Green 


hair  properly  ?  I  keep  on  having  my  hair  cut,  but 
it  keeps  on  growing  again." 

One  of  the  tall  men  looked  at  him  with  the  air 
of  a  pained  naturalist. 

"Why,  here  is  a  little  place,"  cried  the  small 
man,  with  a  sort  of  imbecile  cheerfulness,  as  the 
bright  bulging  window  of  a  fashionable  toilet- 
saloon  glowed  abruptly  out  of  the  foggy  twilight. 
"Do  you  know,  I  often  find  hairdressers  when 
I  walk  about  London.  I'll  lunch  with  you  at  Cicco- 
nani's.  You  know,  I'm  awfully  fond  of  hair- 
dressers' shops.  They're  miles  better  than  those 
nasty  butchers'."  And  he  disappeared  into  the 
doorway. 

The  man  called  James  continued  to  gaze  after 
him,  a  monocle  screwed  into  his  eye. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  make  of  that  fellow  ?" 
he  asked  his  companion,  a  pale  young  man  with  a 
high  nose. 

The  pale  young  man  reflected  conscientiously 
for  some  minutes,  and  then  said — 

"Had  a  knock  on  his  head  when  he  was  a  kid, 
I  should  think." 

"No,  I  don't  think  it's  that,"  replied  the  Hon- 
ourable James  Barker.  "I've  sometimes  fancied 
he  was  a  sort  of  artist,  Lambert." 

"Bosh!"  cried  Mr.  Lambert,  briefly. 

"I   admit   I   can't   make  him   out,"    resumed 
27 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Barker,  abstractedly;  "he  never  opens  his  mouth 
without  saying  something  so  indescribably 
half-witted  that  to  call  him  a  fool  seems 
the  very  feeblest  attempt  at  characterisation. 
But  there's  another  thing  about  him  that's  rather 
funny.  Do  you  know  that  he  has  the  one 
collection  of  Japanese  lacquer  in  Europe?  Have 
you  ever  seen  his  books?  All  Greek  poets 
and  mediaeval  French  and  that  sort  of 
thing.  Have  you  ever  been  in  his  rooms? 
It's  like  being  inside  an  amethyst.  And  he 
moves  about  in  all  that  and  talks  like — like  a 
turnip." 

"Well,  damn  all  books.  Your  blue  books  as 
well,"  said  the  ingenuous  Mr.  Lambert,  with  a 
friendly  simplicity.  "You  ought  to  under- 
stand such  things.  What  do  you  make  of 
him?" 

"He's  beyond  me,"  returned  Barker.  "But  if 
you  asked  me  for  my  opinion,  I  should  say  he 
was  a  man  with  a  taste  for  nonsense,  as  they 
call  it — artistic  fooling,  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing.  And  I  seriously  believe  that  he  has 
talked  nonsense  so  much  that  he  has  half 
bewildered  his  own  mind  and  doesn't  know 
the  difference  between  sanity  and  insanity. 
He  has  gone  round  the  mental  world,  so  to 
speak,  and  found  the  place  where  the  East  and 

28 


The  Man  in  Green 


the  West  are  one,  and  extreme  idiocy  is  as  good 
as  sense.  But  I  can't  explain  these  psychological 
games." 

"You  can't  explain  them  to  me,"  replied  Mr. 
Wilfrid  Lambert,  with  candour. 

As  they  passed  up  the  long  streets  towards 
their  restaurant  the  copper  twilight  cleared 
slowly  to  a  pale  yellow,  and  by  the  time  they 
reached  it  they  stood  discernible  in  a  toler- 
able winter  daylight.  The  Honourable  James 
Barker,  one  of  the  most  powerful  officials  in 
the  English  Government  (by  this  time  a 
rigidly  official  one),  was  a  lean  and  elegant 
young  man,  with  a  blank  handsome  face  and 
bleak  blue  eyes.  He  had  a  great  amount  of 
intellectual  capacity,  of  that  peculiar  kind  which 
raises  a  man  from  throne  to  throne  and  lets  him 
die  loaded  with  honours  without  having  either 
amused  or  enlightened  the  mind  of  a  single 
man.  Wilfrid  Lambert,  the  youth  with  the  nose 
which  appeared  to  impoverish  the  rest  of  his 
face,  had  also  contributed  little  to  the  enlargement 
of  the  human  spirit,  but  he  had  the  honourable 
excuse  of  being  a  fool. 

Lambert  would  have  been  called  a  silly 
man;  Barker,  with  all  his  cleverness,  might 
have  been  called  a  stupid  man.  But  mere  silliness 
and  stupidity  sank  into  insignificance  in 

29 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  presence  of  the  awful  and  mysterious 
treasures  of  foolishness  apparently  stored  up  in 
the  small  figure  that  stood  waiting  for  them 
outside  Cicconani's.  The  little  man,  whose 
name  was  Auberon  Quin,  had  an  appearance 
compounded  of  a  baby  and  an  owl.  His  round 
head,  round  eyes,  seemed  to  have  been  designed 
by  nature  playfully  with  a  pair  of  compasses. 
His  flat  dark  hair  and  preposterously  long  frock- 
coat  gave  him  something  of  the  look  of  a 
child's  "Noah."  When  he  entered  a  room  of 
strangers,  they  mistook  him  for  a  small  boy,  and 
wanted  to  take  him  on  their  knees,  until  he  spoke, 
when  they  perceived  that  a  boy  would  have  been 
more  intelligent. 

"I  have  been  waiting  quite  a  long  time,"  said 
Quin,  mildly.  "It's  awfully  funny  I  should  see 
you  coming  up  the  street  at  last." 

"Why?"  asked  Lambert,  staring.  "You  told 
us  to  come  here  yourself." 

"My  mother  used  to  tell  people  to  come  to 
places,"  said  the  sage. 

They  were  about  to  turn  into  the  restaurant 
with  a  resigned  air,  when  their  eyes  were  caught 
by  something  in  the  street.  The  weather,  though 
cold  and  blank,  was  now  quite  clear  and  across 
the  dull  brown  of  the  wood  pavement  and  between 
the  dull  grey  terraces  was  moving  something  not 

30 


The  Man  in  Green 


to  be  seen  for  miles  around — not  to  be  seen 
perhaps  at  that  time  in  England — a  man  dressed 
in  bright  colours.  A  small  crowd  hung  on  the 
man's  heels. 

He  was  a  tall  stately  man,  clad  in  a  military 
uniform  of  brilliant  green,  splashed  with  great 
silver  facings.  From  the  shoulder  swung  a 
short  green  furred  cloak,  somewhat  like  that  of 
a  Hussar,  the  lining  of  which  gleamed  every  now 
and  then  with  a  kind  of  tawny  crimson.  His 
breast  glittered  with  medals;  round  his  neck  was 
the  red  ribbon  and  star  of  some  foreign  order; 
and  a  long  straight  sword,  with  a  blazing  hilt, 
trailed  and  clattered  along  the  pavement.  At 
this  time  the  pacific  and  utilitarian  development 
of  Europe  had  relegated  all  such  customs  to 
the  Museums.  The  only  remaining  force,  the 
small  but  well-organised  police,  were  attired  in 
a  sombre  and  hygienic  manner.  But  even 
those  who  remembered  the  last  Life  Guards  and 
Lancers  who  disappeared  in  1912  must  have 
known  at  a  glance  that  this  was  not,  and  never 
had  been,  an  English  uniform;  and  this  convic- 
tion would  have  been  heightened  by  the  yellow 
aquiline  face,  like  Dante  carved  in  bronze,  which 
rose,  crowned  with  white  hair,  out  of  the  green 
military  collar,  a  keen  and  distinguished,  but  not 
an  English  face. 

31 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

The  magnificence  with  which  the  green-clad 
gentleman  walked  down  the  centre  of  the  road 
would  be  something  difficult  to  express  in 
human  language.  For  it  was  an  ingrained 
simplicity  and  arrogance,  something  in  the  mere 
carriage  of  the  head  and  body,  which  made  ordi- 
nary moderns  in  the  street  stare  after  him;  but 
it  had  comparatively  little  to  do  with  actual 
conscious  gestures  or  expression.  In  the  matter 
of  these  merely  temporary  movements,  the 
man  appeared  to  be  rather  worried  and 
inquisitive,  but  he  was  inquisitive  with  the 
inquisitiveness  of  a  despot  and  worried  as  with 
the  responsibilities  of  a  god.  The  men  who 
lounged  and  wondered  behind  him  followed 
partly  with  an  astonishment  at  his  brilliant 
uniform,  that  is  to  say,  partly  because  of  that 
instinct  which  makes  us  all  follow  one  who  looks 
like  a  madman,  but  far  more  because  of  that 
instinct  which  makes  all  men  follow  (and  wor- 
ship) any  one  who  chooses  to  behave  like  a  king. 
He  had  to  so  sublime  an  extent  that  great  quality 
of  royalty — an  almost  imbecile  unconsciousness 
of  everybody,  that  people  went  after  him  as  they 
do  after  kings — to  see  what  would  be  the  first 
thing  or  person  he  would  take  notice  of.  And 
all  the  time,  as  we  have  said,  in  spite  of  his  quiet 
splendour,  there  was  an  air  about  him  as  if 

32 


The  Man  in  Green 


he  were  looking  for  somebody;  an  expression  of 
inquiry. 

Suddenly  that  expression  of  inquiry  vanished, 
none  could  tell  why,  and  was  replaced  by  an 
expression  of  contentment.  Amid  the  rapt 
attention  of  the  mob  of  idlers,  the  magnificent 
green  gentleman  deflected  himself  from  his  direct 
course  down  the  centre  of  the  road  and  walked 
to  one  side  of  it.  He  came  to  a  halt  opposite  to 
a  large  poster  of  Colman's  Mustard  erected  on  a 
wooden  hoarding.  His  spectators  almost  held 
their  breath. 

He  took  from  a  small  pocket  in  his  uniform 
a  little  penknife;  with  this  he  made  a  slash  at 
the  stretched  paper.  Completing  the  rest  of  the 
operation  with  his  fingers,  he  tore  off  a  strip  or 
rag  of  paper,  yellow  in  colour  and  wholly  irregu- 
lar in  outline.  Then  for  the  first  time  the  great 
being  addressed  his  adoring  onlookers — 

"Can  any  one,"  he  said,  with  a  pleasing  foreign 
accent,  "lend  me  a  pin?" 

Mr.  Lambert,  who  happened  to  be  nearest,  and 
who  carried  innumerable  pins  for  the  purpose  of 
attaching  innumerable  buttonholes,  lent  him  one, 
which  was  received  with  extravagant  but  dignified 
bows,  and  hyperboles  of  thanks. 

The  gentleman  in  green,  then,  with  every 
appearance  of  being  gratified,  and  even  puffed  up, 

23 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

pinned  the  piece  of  yellow  paper  to  the  green  silk 
and  silver-lace  adornments  of  his  breast.  Then 
he  turned  his  eyes  round  again,  searching  and 
unsatisfied. 

"Anything  else  I  can  do,  sir?"  asked  Lambert, 
with  the  absurd  politeness  of  the  Englishman 
when  once  embarrassed. 

"Red,"  said  the  stranger,  vaguely,  "red." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"I  beg  yours  also,  Senor,"  said  the  stranger, 
bowing.  "I  was  wondering  whether  any  of  you 
had  any  red  about  you." 

"Any  red  about  us? — well  really — no,  I  don't 
think  I  have — I  used  to  carry  a  red  bandanna 
once,  but — " 

"Barker,"  asked  Auberon  Quin,  suddenly, 
"where's  your  red  cockatoo?  Where's  your  red 
cockatoo  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Barker,  desper- 
ately. "What  cockatoo?  You've  never  seen  me 
with  any  cockatoo." 

"I  know,"  said  Auberon,  vaguely  mollified. 
"Where's  it  been  all  the  time?" 

Barker  swung  round,  not  without  resent- 
ment. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  he  said,  shortly  but  civilly, 
"none  of  us  seem  to  have  anything  red  to  lend 
you.  But  why,  if  one  may  ask — " 

34 


The  Man  in  Green 


"I  thank  you,  Senor,  it  is  nothing.  I  can,  since 
there  is  nothing  else,  fulfil  my  own  require- 
ments." 

And  standing  for  a  second  of  thought  with 
the  penknife  in  his  hand,  he  stabbed  his  left  palm. 
The  blood  fell  with  so  full  a  stream  that  it 
struck  the  stones  without  dripping.  The  foreigner 
pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  tore  a  piece  from 
it  with  his  teeth.  The  rag  was  immediately;  soaked 
in  scarlet. 

"Since  you  are  so  generous,  Senor,"  he  said, 
"another  pin,  perhaps." 

Lambert  held  one  out,  with  eyes  protruding 
like  a  frog's. 

The  red  linen  was  pinned  beside  the  yellow 
paper,  and  the  foreigner  took  off  his  hat. 

"I  have  to  thank  you  all,  gentlemen,"  he  said; 
and  wrapping  the  remainder  of  the  handkerchief 
round  his  bleeding  hand,  he  resumed  his  walk  with 
an  overwhelming  stateliness. 

While  all  the  rest  paused,  in  some  disorder, 
little  Mr.  Auberon  Quin  ran  after  the  stranger 
and  stopped  him,  with  hat  in  hand.  Considerably 
to  everybody's  astonishment,  he  addressed  him 
in  the  purest  Spanish — 

"Senor,"  he  said  in  that  language,  "pardon  a 
hospitality,  perhaps  indiscreet,  towards  one  who 
appears  to  be  a  distinguished,  but  a  solitary  guest 

35 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

in  London.  Will  you  do  me  and  my  friends,  with 
whom  you  have  held  some  conversation,  the 
honour  of  lunching  with  us  at  the  adjoining  res- 
taurant?" 

The  man  in  the  green  uniform  had  turned  a 
fiery  colour  of  pleasure  at  the  mere  sound  of  his 
own  language,  and  he  accepted  the  invitation  with 
that  profusion  of  bows  which  so  often  shows,  in 
the  case  of  the  Southern  races,  the  falsehood  of 
the  notion  that  ceremony  has  nothing  to  do  with 
feeling. 

"Sefior,"  he  said,  "your  language  is  my  own; 
but  all  my  love  for  my  people  shall  not  lead  me 
to  deny  to  yours  the  possession  of  so  chivalrous 
an  entertainer.  Let  me  say  that  the  tongue  is 
Spanish  but  the  heart  English."  And  he  passed 
with  the  rest  into  Cicconani's. 

"Now,  perhaps,"  said  Barker,  over  the  fish  and 
sherry,  intensely  polite,  but  burning  with  curi- 
osity, "perhaps  it  would  be  rude  of  me  to  ask 
why  you  did  that?" 

"Did  what,  Sefior  ?"  asked  the  guest,  who  spoke 
English  quite  well,  though  in  a  manner  indefinably 
American. 

"Well,"  said  the  Englishman,  in  some  confu- 
sion, "I  mean  tore  a  strip  off  a  hoarding  and 
...  er  ...  cut  yourself  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

"To  tell  you  that,  Senor,"  answered  the  other, 
36 


The  Man  in  Green 


with  a  certain  sad  pride,  "involves  merely  telling 
you  who  I  am.  I  am  Juan  del  Fuego,  President 
of  Nicaragua," 

The  manner  with  which  the  President  of 
Nicaragua  leant  back  and  drank  his  sherry 
showed  that  to  him  this  explanation  covered 
all  the  facts  observed  and  a  great  deal  more. 
Barker's  brow,  however,  was  still  a  little 
clouded. 

"And  the  yellow  paper,"  he  began,  with  anxious 
friendliness,  "and  the  red  rag  .  .  ." 

"The  yellow  paper  and  the  red  rag,"  said 
Fuego,  with  indescribable  grandeur,  "are  the 
colours  of  Nicaragua." 

"But  Nicaragua  .  .  ."  began  Barker,  with 
great  hesitation,  "Nicaragua  is  no  longer 
a  ..." 

"Nicaragua  has  been  conquered  like  Athens. 
Nicaragua  has  been  annexed  like  Jerusalem," 
cried  the  old  man,  with  amazing  fire.  "The 
Yankee  and  the  German  and  the  brute  powers 
of  modernity  have  trampled  it  with  the  hoofs  of 
oxen.  But  Nicaragua  is  not  dead.  Nicaragua  is 
an  idea." 

Auberon  Quin  suggested  timidly,  "A  brilliant 
idea." 

"Yes,"  said  the  foreigner,  snatching  at  the 
word.  "You  are  right,  generous  Englishman. 

37 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

An  idea  brilliant,  a  burning  thought.  Sefior,  you 
asked  me  why,  in  my  desire  to  see  the  colours 
of  my  country,  I  snatched  at  paper  and  blood. 
Can  you  not  understand  the  ancient  sanctity  of 
colours?  The  Church  has  her  symbolic  colours. 
And  think  of  what  colours  mean  to  us 
— think  of  the  position  of  one  like  myself, 
who  can  see  nothing  but  those  two  col- 
ours, nothing  but  the  red  and  the  yellow.  To 
me  all  shapes  are  equal,  all  common  and  noble 
things  are  in  a  democracy  of  combination. 
Wherever  there  is  a  field  of  marigolds  and  the 
red  cloak  of  an  old  woman,  there  is  Nicaragua. 
Wherever  there  is  a  field  of  poppies  and  a 
yellow  patch  of  sand,  there  is  Nicaragua. 
Wherever  there  is  a  lemon  and  a  red  sunset, 
there  is  my  country.  Wherever  I  see  a  red 
pillar-box  and  a  yellow  sunset,  there  my  heart 
beats.  Blood  and  a  splash  of  mustard  can  be  my 
heraldry.  If  there  be  yellow  mud  and  red  mud 
in  the  same  ditch,  it  is  better  to  me  than  white 
stars." 

"And  if,"  said  Quin,  with  equal  enthusiasm, 
"there  should  happen  to  be  yellow  wine  and  red 
wine  at  the  same  lunch,  you  could  not  confine 
yourself  to  sherry.  Let  me  order  some  Burgundy, 
and  complete,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  Nicaraguan 
heraldry  in  your  inside." 

38 


The  Man  in  Green 


Barker  was  fiddling  with  his  knife,  and  was 
evidently  making  up  his  mind  to  say  something, 
with  the  intense  nervousness  of  the  amiable 
Englishman. 

"I  am  to  understand,  then,"  he  said  at  last, 
with  a  cough,  "that  you,  ahem,  were  the 
President  of  Nicaragua  when  it  made  its — er — 
one  must,  of  course,  agree — its  quite  heroic  resist- 
ance to — er — " 

The  ex-President  of  Nicaragua  waved  his 
hand. 

"You  need  not  hesitate  in  speaking  to-  me,"  he 
said.  "I  am  quite  fully  aware  that  the  whole  ten- 
dency of  the  world  of  to-day  is  against  Nicaragua 
and  against  me.  I  shall  not  consider  it  any  dimin- 
ution of  your  evident  courtesy  if  you  say  what 
you  think  of  the  misfortunes  that  have  laid  my 
republic  in  ruins." 

Barker  looked  immeasurably  relieved  and 
gratified. 

"You  are  most  generous,  President,"  he  said, 
with  some  hesitation  over  the  title,  "and  I  will 
take  advantage  of  your  generosity  to  express  the 
doubts  which,  I  must  confess,  \ve  moderns  have 
about  such  things  as — er — the  Nicaraguan  inde- 
pendence." 

"So  your  sympathies  are,"  said  Del  Fuego, 
quite  calmly,  "with  the  big  nation  which — " 

39 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"Pardon  me,  pardon  me,  President,"  said 
Barker,  warmly;  "my  sympathies  are  with  no 
nation.  You  misunderstand,  I  think,  the 
modern  intellect.  We  do  not  disapprove  of  the 
fire  and  extravagance  of  such  commonwealths  as 
yours  only  to  become  more  extravagant  on  a 
larger  scale.  We  do  not  condemn  Nicaragua 
because  we  think  Britain  ought  to  be  more 
Nicaraguan.  We  do  not  discourage  small 
nationalities  because  we  wish  large  nationalities 
to  have  all  their  smallness,  all  their  uniformity 
of  outlook,  all  their  exaggeration  of  spirit. 
If  I  differ  with  the  greatest  respect  from 
your  Nicaraguan  enthusiasm,  it  is  not  because  a 
nation  or  ten  nations  were  against  you;  it  is 
because  civilisation  was  against  you.  We  moderns 
believe  in  a  great  cosmopolitan  civilisation,  one 
which  shall  include  all  the  talents  of  all  the 
absorbed  peoples — " 

"The  Sefior  will  forgive  me,"  said  the 
President.  "May  I  ask  the  Sefior  how,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  he  catches  a  wild 
horse?" 

"I  never  catch  a  wild  horse,"  replied  Barker, 
with  dignity. 

"Precisely,"  said  the  other;  "and  there  ends 
your  absorption  of  the  talents.  That  is  what  I 
complain  of  your  cosmopolitanism.  When  you 

40 


The  Man  in  Green 


say  you  want  all  peoples  to  unite,  you  really 
mean  that  you  want  all  peoples  to  unite  to 
learn  the  tricks  of  your  people.  If  the 
Bedouin  Arab  does  not  know  how  to  read, 
some  English  missionary  or  schoolmaster  must 
be  sent  to  teach  him  to  read,  but  no  one  ever 
says,  'This  schoolmaster  does  not  know  how  to 
ride  on  a  camel;  let  us  pay  a  Bedouin  to  teach 
him.'  You  say  your  civilisation  will  include 
all  talents.  Will  it?  Do  you  really  mean  to 
say  that  at  the  moment  when  the  Esquimaux 
has  learnt  to  vote  for  a  County  Council,  you 
will  have  learnt  to  spear  a  walrus?  I  recur  to 
the  example  I  gave.  In  Nicaragua  we  had  a 
way  of  catching  wild  horses — by  lassooing  the 
fore  feet — which  was  supposed  to  be  the  best  in 
South  America.  If  you  are  going  to  include  all 
the  talents,  go  and  do  it.  If  not,  permit  me 
to  say,  what  I  have  always  said,  that  some- 
thing went  from  the  world  when  Nicaragua  was 
civilised." 

"Something,  perhaps,"  replied  Barker,  "but 
that  something  a  mere  barbarian  dexterity.  I  do 
not  know  that  I  could  chip  flints  as  well  as  a 
primeval  man,  but  I  know  that  civilisation  can 
make  these  knives  which  are  better,  and  I  trust 
to  civilisation." 

"You    have   good    authority,"    answered    the 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Nicaraguan.  "Many  clever  men  like  you  have 
trusted  to  civilisation.  Many  clever  Babylo- 
nians, many  clever  Egyptians,  many  clever 
men  at  the  end  of  Rome.  Can  you  tell 
me,  in  a  world  that  is  flagrant  with  the  failures 
of  civilisation,  what  there  is  particularly  immortal 
about  yours?" 

"I  think  you  do  not  quite  understand, 
President,  what  ours  is,"  answered  Barker. 
"You  judge  it  rather  as  if  England  was  still  a 
poor  and  pugnacious  island;  you  have  been 
long  out  of  Europe.  Many  things  have 
happened." 

"And  what,"  asked  the  other,  "would  you  call 
the  summary  of  those  things  ?" 

"The  summary  of  those  things,"  answered 
Barker,  with  great  animation,  "is  that  we  are 
rid  of  the  superstitions,  and  in  becoming  so  we 
have  not  merely  become  rid  of  the  superstitions 
which  have  been  most  frequently  and  most 
enthusiastically  so  described.  The  super- 
stition of  big  nationalities  is  bad,  but  the 
superstition  of  small  nationalities  is  worse.  The 
superstition  of  reverencing  our  own  country  is 
bad,  but  the  superstition  of  reverencing  other 
people's  countries  is  worse.  It  is  so  everywhere, 
and  in  a  hundred  ways.  The  superstition 
of  monarchy  is  bad,  and  the  superstition  of  ari- 

42 


The  Man  in  Green 


stocracy  is  bad,  but  the  superstition  of  democracy 
is  the  worst  of  all." 

The  old  gentleman  opened  his  eyes  with  some 
surprise. 

"Are  you,  then,"  he  said,  "no  longer  a  democ- 
racy in  England  ?" 

Barker  laughed. 

"The  situation  invites  paradox,"  he  said.  "We 
are,  in  a  sense,  the  purest  democracy.  We  have 
become  a  despotism.  Have  you  not  noticed  how 
continually  in  history  democracy  becomes  despo- 
tism ?  People  call  it  the  decay  of  democracy.  It 
is  simply  its  fulfilment.  Why  take  the  trouble 
to  number  and  register  and  enfranchise  all  the 
innumerable  John  Robinsons,  when  you  can  take 
one  John  Robinson  with  the  same  intellect  or  lack 
of  intellect  as  all  the  rest,  and  have  done  with  it  ? 
The  old  idealistic  republicans  used  to  found  de- 
mocracy on  the  idea  that  all  men  were  equally 
intelligent.  Believe  me,  the  sane  and  enduring- 
democracy  is  founded  on  the  fact  that  all  men  are 
equally  idiotic.  Why  should  we  not  choose  out 
of  them  one  as  much  as  another?  All 
that  we  want  for  Government  is  a  man 
not  criminal  and  insane,  who  can  rapidly  look 
over  some  petitions  and  sign  some  proclamations. 
To  think  what  time  was  wasted  in  arguing 
about  the  House  of  Lords,  Tories  saying  it 

43 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

ought  to  be  preserved  because  it  was  clever,  and 
Radicals  saying  it  ought  to  be  destroyed 
because  it  was  stupid,  and  all  the  time  no 
one  saw  that  it  was  right  because  it  was  stupid, 
because  that  chance  mob  of  ordinary  men 
thrown  there  by  accident  of  blood,  were  a 
great  democratic  protest  against  the  Lower 
House,  against  the  eternal  insolence  of  the 
aristocracy  of  talents.  We  have  established  now 
in  England,  the  thing  towards  which  all  systems 
have  dimly  groped,  the  dull  popular  despo- 
tism without  illusions.  We  want  one  man  at  the 
head  of  our  State,  not  because  he  is  bril- 
liant or  virtuous,  but  because  he  is  one 
man  and  not  a  chattering  crowd.  To  avoid  the 
possible  chance  of  hereditary  diseases  or  such 
things,  we  have  abandoned  hereditary  monarchy. 
The  King  of  England  is  chosen  like  a  juryman 
upon  an  official  rotation  list.  Beyond  that  the 
whole  system  is  quietly  despotic,  and  we  have  not 
found  it  raise  a  murmur." 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  asked  the  President, 
incredulously,  "that  you  choose  any  ordinary  man 
that  comes  to  hand  and  make  him  despot 
— that  you  trust  to  the  chance  of  some  alphabeti- 
cal list.  .  .  ." 

"And  why  not?"  cried  Barker.  "Did  not 
half  the  historical  nations  trust  to  the  chance  of 

44 


The  Man  in  Green 


the  eldest  sons  of  eldest  sons,  and  did  not  half 
of  them  get  on  tolerably  well?  To  have 
a  perfect  system  is  impossible;  to  have  a 
system  is  indispensable.  All  hereditary  mon- 
archies were  a  matter  of  luck:  so  are 
alphabetical  monarchies.  Can  you  find  a  deep 
philosophical  meaning  in  the  difference  between 
the  Stuarts  and  the  Hanoverians?  Believe  me, 
I  will  undertake  to  find  a  deep  philosophical 
meaning  in  the  contrast  between  the  dark 
tragedy  of  the  A's,  and  the  solid  success  of  the 
B's."  " 

"And  you  risk  it?"  asked  the  other.  "Though 
the  man  may  be  a  tyrant  or  a  cynic  or  a 
criminal  ?" 

"We  risk  it,"  answered  Barker,  with  a  perfect 
placidity.  "Suppose  he  is  a  tyrant — he  is  still 
a  check  on  a  hundred  tyrants.  Suppose  he  is  a 
cynic,  it  is  to  his  interest  to  govern  well.  Suppose 
he  is  a  criminal — by  removing  poverty  and  sub- 
stituting power,  we  put  a  check  on  his  criminality. 
In  short,  by  substituting  despotism  we  have  put 
a  total  check  on  one  criminal  and  a  partial  check 
on  all  the  rest." 

The  Nicaraguan  old  gentleman  leaned  over 
with  a  queer  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"My  church,  sir,"  he  said,  "has  taught  me  to 
respect  faith.  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  with  any 

45 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

disrespect  of  yours,  however  fantastic.  But  do 
you  really  mean  that  you  will  trust  to  the  ordinary 
man,  the  man  who  may  happen  to  come  next,  as  a 
good  despot?" 

"I  do,"  said  Barker,  simply.  "He  may  not  be 
a  good  man.  But  he  will  be  a  good  despot.  For 
when  he  comes  to  a  mere  business  routine  of 
government  he  will  endeavour  to  do  ordinary 
iustice.  Do  we  not  assume  the  same  thing  in  a 
jury?" 

The  old  President  smiled. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  any 
particular  objection  in  detail  to  your  excellent 
scheme  of  Government.  My  only  objection  is  a 
quite  personal  one.  It  is,  that  if  I  were  asked 
whether  I  would  belong  to  it,  I  should  ask  first 
of  all,  if  I  was  not  permitted,  as  an  alternative, 
to  be  a  toad  in  a  ditch.  That  is  all.  You  cannot 
argue  with  the  choice  of  the  soul." 

"Of  the  soul,"  said  Barker,  knitting  his  brows, 
"I  cannot  pretend  to  say  anything,  but  speaking 
in  the  interests  of  the  public — " 

Mr.  Auberon  Quin  rose  suddenly  to  his 
feet. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
"I  will  step  out  for  a  moment  into  the  air." 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Auberon,"  said  Lambert,  good- 
naturedly;  "do  you  feel  bad?" 

46 


The  Man  in  Green 


"Not  bad  exactly,"  said  Auberon,  with  self- 
restraint;  "rather  good,  if  anything.  Strangely 
and  richly  good.  The  fact  is  I  want  to  reflect  a 
little  on  those  beautiful  words  that  have  just  been 
uttered.  'Speaking',  yes,  that  was  the  phrase, 
'speaking  in  the  interests  of  the  public.'  One 
cannot  get  the  honey  from  such  things  without 
being  alone  for  a  little." 

"Is  he  really  off  his  chump,  do  you  think?" 
asked  Lambert. 

The  old  President  looked  after  him  with  queerly 
vigilant  eyes. 

"He  is  a  man,  I  think,"  he  said,  "who  cares 
for  nothing  but  a  joke.  He  is  a  dangerous 
man." 

Lambert  laughed  in  the  act  of  lifting  some 
maccaroni  to  his  mouth. 

"Dangerous !"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  little 
Quin,  sir !" 

"Every  man  is  dangerous,"  said  the  old  man 
without  moving,  "who  cares  only  for  one  thing. 
I  was  once  dangerous  myself." 

And  with  a  pleasant  smile  he  finished  his  coffee 
and  rose,  bowing  profoundly,  passed  out  into  the 
fog,  which  had  again  grown  dense  and  sombre. 
Three  days  afterwards  they  heard  that  he  had 
died  quietly  in  lodgings  in  Soho. 


47 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Drowned  somewhere  else  in  the  dark  sea  of 
fog  was  a  little  figure  shaking  and  quaking, 
with  what  might  at  first  sight  have  seemed 
terror  or  ague:  but  which  was  really  that 
strange  malady,  a  lonely  laughter.  He  was 
repeating  over  and  over  to  himself  with  a  rich 
accent — "But  speaking  in  the  interests  of  the 
public.  .  .  ." 


I 


CHAPTER    III — The  Hill  of  Humour 

6  £  ~~f  N  a  little  square  garden  of  yellow  roses, 
beside  the  sea,"  said  Auberon  Quin, 
"there  was  a  Nonconformist  minister 
who  had  never  been  to  Wimbledon.  His 
family  did  not  understand  his  sorrow  or  the 
strange  look  in  his  eyes.  But  one  day  they 
repented  their  neglect,  for  they  heard  that  a  body 
had  been  found  on  the  shore,  battered,  but 
wearing  patent  leather  boots.  As  it  happened, 
it  turned  out  not  to  be  the  minister  at  all. 
But  in  the  dead  man's  pocket  there  was  a  return 
ticket  to  Maidstone." 

There  was  a  short  pause  as  Quin  and  his  friends 
Barker  and  Lambert  went  swinging  on  through 
the  slushy  grass  of  Kensington  Gardens.  Then 
Auberon  resumed. 

"That  story,"  he  said  reverently,  "is  the  test 
of  humour." 

They  walked  on  further  and  faster,  wading 
through  higher  grass  as  they  began  to  climb  a 
slope. 

"I  perceive,"  continued  Auberon,  "that  you 
have  passed  the  test,  and  consider  the  anecdote 
excruciatingly  funny;  since  you  say  nothing. 
Only  coarse  humour  is  received  with  pot-house 

49 


The  Napoleon  of  Netting  Hill 

applause.  The  great  anecdote  is  received  in 
silence,  like  a  benediction.  You  felt  pretty  bene- 
dicted,  didn't  you,  Barker  ?" 

"I  saw  the  point,"  said  Barker,  somewhat 
loftily. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Quin,  with  a  sort  of  idiot 
gaiety,  "I  have  lots  of  stories  as  good  as  that. 
Listen  to  this  one." 

And  he  slightly  cleared  his  throat. 

"Dr.  Polycarp  was,  as  you  all  know,  an 
unusually  sallow  bimetallist.  'There/  people 
of  wide  experience  would  say,  'There  goes  the 
sallowest  bimetallist  in  Cheshire/  Once  this  was 
said  so  that  he  overheard  it:  it  was  said  by  an 
actuary,  under  a  sunset  of  mauve  and  grey. 
Polycarp  turned  upon  him.  'Sallow!'  he  cried 
fiercely,  'sallow!  Quis  tulerit  Gracchos  de  sedi- 
tione  querentes'  It  was  said  that  no  actuary 
ever  made  game  of  Dr.  Polycarp  again." 

Barker  nodded  with  a  simple  sagacity.  Lam- 
bert only  grunted. 

"Here  is  another,"  continued  the  insatiable 
Quin.  "In  a  hollow  of  the  grey-green  hills  of 
rainy  Ireland,  lived  an  old,  old  woman,  whose 
uncle  was  always  Cambridge  at  the  Boat  Race. 
But  in  her  grey-green  hollows,  she  knew  nothing 
of  this:  she  didn't  know  that  there  was  a  Boat 
Race.  Also  she  did  not  know  that  she  had  an 

so 


The  Hill  of  Humour 


uncle.  She  had  heard  of  nobody  at  all,  except 
of  George  the  First,  of  whom  she  had  heard  (I 
know  not  why),  and  in  whose  historical 
memory  she  put  her  simple  trust.  And  by  and 
by,  in  God's  good  time,  it  was  discovered  that 
this  uncle  of  hers  was  not  really  her  uncle,  and 
they  came  and  told  her  so.  She  smiled 
through  her  tears,  and  said  only,  'Virtue  is  its 
own  reward.' ' 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  and  then  Lambert 
said — 

"It  seems  a  bit  mysterious." 

"Mysterious!"  cried  the  other.  "The  true 
humour  is  mysterious.  Do  you  not  realise  the 
chief  incident  of  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth 
centuries  ?" 

"And  what's  that?"  asked  Lambert,  shortly. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  replied  the  other.  "Hitherto 
it  was  the  ruin  of  a  joke  that  people  did  not 
see  it.  Now  it  is  the  sublime  victory  of  a  joke 
that  people  do  not  see  it.  Humour,  my  friends, 
is  the  one  sanctity  remaining  to  mankind.  It  is 
the  one  thing  you  are  thoroughly  afraid  of.  Look 
at  that  tree." 

His  interlocutors  looked  vaguely  towards  a 
beech  that  leant  out  towards  them  from  the  ridge 
of  the  hill. 

"If,"  said  Mr.  Quin,  "I  were  to  say  that  you 
51 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

did  not  see  the  great  truths  of  science  exhibited 
by  that  tree,  though  they  stared  any  man 
of  intellect  in  the  face,  what  would  you 
think  or  say?  You  would  merely  regard  me 
as  a  pedant  with  some  unimportant  theory 
about  vegetable  cells.  If  I  were  to  say  that  you 
did  not  see  in  that  tree  the  vile  misman- 
agement of  local  politics,  you  would  dismiss 
me  as  a  Socialist  crank  with  some  particular  fad 
about  public  parks.  If  I  were  to  say  that  you 
were  guilty  of  the  supreme  blasphemy  of  look- 
ing at  that  tree  and  not  seeing  in  it  a  new 
religion,  a  special  revelation  of  God,  you  would 
simply  say  I  was  a  mystic,  and  think  no  more 
about  me.  But  if" — and  he  lifted  a  pontifical 
hand — "if  I  say  that  you  cannot  see  the  humour 
of  that  tree,  and  that  I  see  the  humour 
of  it — my  God!  you  will  roll  about  at  my 
feet." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  resumed. 

"Yes;  a  sense  of  humour,  a  weird  and 
delicate  sense  of  humour,  is  the  new  religion  of 
mankind!  It  is  towards  that  men  will  strain 
themselves  with  the  asceticism  of  saints. 
Exercises,  spiritual  exercises,  will  be  set  in  it.  It 
will  be  asked,  'Can  you  see  the  humour  of  this 
iron  railing?'  or  'Can  you  see  the  humour  of 
this  field  of  corn?  Can  you  see  the  humour  of 

52 


The  Hill  of  Humour 


the  stars?  Can  you  see  the  humour  of  the  sun- 
sets ?'  How  often  I  have  laughed  myself  to  sleep 
over  a  violet  sunset." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Barker,  with  an  intelligent 
embarrassment. 

"Let  me  tell  you  another  story.  How  often 
it  happens  that  the  M.P.'s  for  Essex  are  less 
punctual  than  one  would  suppose.  The  least 
punctual  Essex  M.P.,  perhaps,  was  James 
Wilson,  who  said,  in  the  very  act  of  plucking  a 
poppy — " 

Lambert  suddenly  faced  round  and  struck  his 
stick  into  the  ground  in  a  defiant  attitude. 

"Auberon,"  he  said,  "chuck  it.  I  won't  stand 
it.  It's  all  bosh." 

Both  men  stared  at  him,  for  there  was  some- 
thing very  explosive  about  the  words,  as  if 
they  had  been  corked  up  painfully  for  a  long 
time. 

"You  have,"  began  Quin,  "no—" 

"I  don't  care  a  curse,"  said  Lambert,  violently, 
"whether  I  have  'a  delicate  sense  of  humour'  or 
not.  I  won't  stand  it.  It's  all  a  confounded 
fraud.  There's  no  joke  in  those  infernal  tales 
at  all.  You  know  there  isn't  as  well  as  I 
do." 

"Well,"  replied  Quin,  slowly,  "it  is  true  that 
I,  with  my  rather  gradual  mental  processes,  did 

53 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

not  see  any  joke  in  them.  But  the  finer  sense  of 
Barker  perceived  it." 

Barker  turned  a  fierce  red,  but  continued  to 
stare  at  the  horizon. 

"You  ass,"  said  Lambert;  "why  can't  you  be 
like  other  people  ?  Why  can't  you  say  something 
really  funny,  or  hold  your  tongue  ?  The  man  who 
sits  on  his  hat  in  a  pantomime  is  a  long  sight 
funnier  than  you  are." 

Quin  regarded  him  steadily.  They  had  reached 
the  top  of  the  ridge  and  the  wind  struck  their 
faces. 

"Lambert,"  said  Auberon,  "you  are  a  great  and 
good  man,  though  I'm  hanged  if  you  look  it.  You 
are  more.  You  are  a  great  revolutionist  or 
deliverer  of  the  world,  and  I  look  forward  to 
seeing  you  carved  in  marble  between  Luther 
and  Danton,  if  possible  in  your  present  atti- 
tude, the  hat  slightly  on  one  side.  I  said  as  I 
came  up  the  hill  that  the  new  humour  was  the 
last  of  the  religions.  You  have  made  it  the  last 
of  the  superstitions.  But  let  me  give  you  a  very 
serious  warning.  Be  careful  how  you  ask 
me  to  do  anything  outre,  to  imitate  the  man 
in  the  pantomime,  and  to  sit  on  my  hat.  Because 
I  am  a  man  whose  soul  has  been  emptied 
of  all  pleasures  but  folly.  And  for  twopence  I'd 
do  it." 

54 


The  Hill  of  Humour 


"Do  it  then,"  said  Lambert,  swinging  his  stick 
impatiently.  "It  would  be  funnier  than  the  bosh 
you  and  Barker  talk." 

Quin,  standing  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  stretched 
his  hand  out  towards  the  main  avenue  of  Kensing- 
ton Gardens. 

"Two  hundred  yards  away,"  he  said,  "are  all 
your  fashionable  acquaintances  with  nothing  on 
earth  to  do  but  to  stare  at  each  other  and  at 
us.  We  are  standing  upon  an  elevation  under 
the  open  sky,  a  peak  as  it  were  of  fantasy,  a 
Sinai  of  humour.  We  are  in  a  great  pulpit  or 
platform,  lit  up  with  sunlight,  and  half  London 
can  see  us.  Be  careful  how  you  suggest  things 
to  me.  For  there  is  in  me  a  madness  which  goes 
beyond  martyrdom,  the  madness  of  an  utterly 
idle  man." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
said  Lambert,  contemptuously.  "I  only  know  I'd 
rather  you  stood  on  your  silly  head,  than  talked 
so  much." 

"Auberon!  for  goodness'  sake  .  .  .  '  cried 
Barker,  springing  forward;  but  he  was  too  late. 
Faces  from  all  the  benches  and  avenues  were 
turned  in  their  direction.  Groups  stopped 
and  small  crowds  collected;  and  the  sharp 
sunlight  picked  out  the  whole  scene  in  blue, 
green  and  black,  like  a  picture  in  a  child's  toy- 

55 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

book.  And  on  the  top  of  the  small  hill  Mr. 
Auberon  Quin  stood  with  considerable  athletic 
neatness  upon  his  head,  and  waved  his  patent- 
leather  boots  in  the  air. 

"For  God's  sake,  Quin,  get  up,  and  don't 
be  an  idiot,"  cried  Barker,  wringing  his 
hands;  "we  shall  have  the  whole  town 
here." 

"Yes,  get  up,  get  up,  man,"  said  Lambert, 
amused  and  annoyed.  "I  was  only  fooling;  get 
up." 

Auberon  did  so  with  a  bound,  and  flinging  his 
hat  higher  than  the  trees,  proceeded  to  hop  about 
on  one  leg  with  a  serious  expression.  Barker 
stamped  wildly. 

"Oh,  let's  get  home,  Barker,  and  leave  him," 
said  Lambert;  "some  of  your  proper  and 
correct  police  will  look  after  him.  Here  they 
come !" 

Two  grave-looking  men  in  quiet  uniforms  came 
up  the  hill  towards  them.  One  held  a  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"There  he  is,  officer,"  said  Lambert,  cheerfully: 
"we  ain't  responsible  for  him." 

The  officer  looked  at  the  capering  Mr.  Quin 
with  a  quiet  eye. 

"We  have  not  come,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
"about  what  I  think  you  are  alluding  to.  We 

56 


The  Hill  of  Humour 


have  come  from  head-quarters  to  announce  the 
selection  of  His  Majesty  the  King.  It  is  the 
rule,  inherited  from  the  old  regime,  that  the 
news  should  be  brought  to  the  new 
Sovereign  immediately,  wherever  he  is;  so 
we  have  followed  you  across  Kensington 
Gardens." 

Barker's  eyes  were  blazing  in  his  pale  face. 
He  was  consumed  with  ambition  throughout 
his  life.  With  a  certain  dull  magnanimity  of 
the  intellect  he  had  really  believed  in  the 
chance  method  of  selecting  despots.  But  this 
sudden  suggestion,  that  the  selection  might 
have  fallen  upon  him,  unnerved  him  with 
pleasure. 

"Which  of  us,"  he  began,  and  the  respectful 
official  interrupted  him. 

"Not  you,  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  If  I 
may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  we  know  your 
services  to  the  Government,  and  should  be 
very  thankful  if  it  were.  The  choice  has 
fallen  .  .  ." 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  Lambert,  jumping 
back  two  paces.  "Not  me.  Don't  say  I'm  auto- 
crat of  all  the  Russias." 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  officer,  with  a  slight  cough 
and  a  glance  towards  Auberon,  who 
was  at  that  moment  putting  his  head 

57. 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

between  his  legs  and  making  a  noise  like  a 
cow;  "the  gentleman  whom  we  have  to 
congratulate  seems  at  the  moment — er— er — 
occupied." 

"Not  Quin!"  shrieked  Barker,  rushing  up 
to  him;  "it  can't  be.  Auberon,  for  God's  sake 
pull  yourself  together.  You've  been  made 
King!" 

With  his  head  still  upside  down  between  his 
legs,  Mr.  Quin  answered  modestly — 

"I  am  not  worthy.  I  cannot  reasonably  claim 
to  equal  the  great  men  who  have  previously 
swayed  the  sceptre  of  Britain.  Perhaps  the  only 
peculiarity  that  I  can  claim  is  that  I  am  probably 
the  first  monarch  that  ever  spoke  out  his  soul  to 
the  people  of  England  with  his  head  and 
body  in  this  position.  This  may  in  some  sense 
give  me,  to  quote  a  poem  that  I  wrote  in  my 
youth — 

A  nobler  office  on  the  earth 

Than  valour,   power  of  brain,  or  birth 

Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old. 

The  intellect  clarified  by  this  posture — " 

Lambert  and  Barker  made  a  kind  of  rush  at 

him. 

"Don't     you    understand?"     cried     Lambert. 

"It's   not   a   joke.      They've   really   made   you 

58 


The  Hill  of  Humour 


King.       By     gosh!     they     must     have   rum 
taste." 

"The  great  Bishops  of  the  Middle  Ages," 
said  Quin,  kicking  his  legs  in  the  air,  as  he  was 
dragged  up  more  or  less  upside  down, 
"were  in  the  habit  of  refusing  the  honour  of 
election  three  times  and  then  accepting  it.  A 
mere  matter  of  detail  separates  me  from  those 
great  men.  I  will  accept  the  post  three  times  and 
refuse  it  afterwards.  Oh!  I  will  toil  for  you, 
my  faithful  people !  You  shall  have  a  banquet  of 
humour." 

By  this  time  he  had  been  landed  the  right  way 
up,  and  the  two  men  were  still  trying  in 
vain  to  impress  him  with  the  gravity  of  the 
situation. 

"Did  you  not  tell  me,  Wilfrid  Lambert,"  he 
said,  "that  I  should  be  of  more  public  value  if 
I  adopted  a  more  popular  form  of  humour  ?  And 
when  should  a  popular  form  of  humour  be  more 
firmly  riveted  upon  me  than  now,  when  I  have 
become  the  darling  of  a  whole  people? 
Officer,"  he  continued,  addressing  the 
startled  messenger,  "are  there  no  ceremonies  to 
celebrate  my  entry  into  the  city  ?" 

"Ceremonies,"  began  the  official,  with  embar- 
rassment, "have  been  more  or  less  neglected  for 
some  little  time,  and — " 

59 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Auberon  Quin  began  gradually  to  take  off  his 
coat. 

"All  ceremony,"  he  said,  "consists  in  the 
reversal  of  the  obvious.  Thus  men,  when  they 
wish  to  be  priests  or  judges,  dress  up  like  women. 
Kindly  help  me  on  with  this  coat."  And  he  held 
it  out. 

"But,  your  Majesty,"  said  the  officer,  after 
a  moment's  bewilderment  and  manipulation, 
"you're  putting  it  on  with  the  tails  in 
front." 

"The  reversal  of  the  obvious,"  said  the 
King,  calmly,  "is  as  near  as  we  can  come 
to  ritual  with  our  imperfect  apparatus.  Lead 
on." 

The  rest  of  that  afternoon  and  evening  was 
to  Barker  and  Lambert  a  nightmare,  which  they 
could  not  properly  realise  or  recall.  The  King, 
with  his  coat  on  the  wrong  way,  went  towards 
the  streets  that  were  awaiting  him,  and  the  old 
Kensington  Palace  which  was  the  Royal  resi- 
dence. As  he  passed  small  groups  of  men, 
the  groups  turned  into  crowds,  and  gave  forth 
sounds  which  seemed  strange  in  welcoming  an 
autocrat.  Barker  walked  behind,  his  brain 
reeling,  and,  as  the  crowds  grew  thicker  and 
thicker,  the  sounds  became  more  and  more  un- 
usual. And  when  he  had  reached  the  great 

60 


The  Hill  of  Humour 


market-place  opposite  the  church,  Barker  knew 
that  he  had  reached  it,  though  he  was  roods 
behind,  because  a  cry  went  up  such  as  had 
never  before  greeted  any  of  the  kings  of  the 
earth. 


61 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER    I — The  Charter  of  the  Cities 

LAMBERT  was  standing  bewildered  out- 
side the  door  of  the  King's  apart- 
ments amid  the  scurry  of  astonish- 
ment and  ridicule.  He  was  just  passing  out 
into  the  street,  in  a  dazed  manner,  when  James 
Barker  dashed  by  him. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"To  stop  all  this  foolery,  of  course," 
replied  Barker;  and  he  disappeared  into  the 
room. 

He  entered  it  headlong,  slamming  the  door, 
and  slapping  his  incomparable  silk  hat  on  the 
table.  His  mouth  opened,  but  before  he  could 
speak,  the  King  said — 

"Your  hat,  if  you  please." 

Fidgetting  with  his  fingers,  and  scarcely  know- 
ing what  he  was  doing,  the  young  politician  held 
it  out. 

The  King  placed  it  on  his  own  chair,  and  sat 
on  it. 

"A  quaint  old  custom,"  he  explained,  smiling 
above  the  ruins.  "When  the  King  receives  the 
representatives  of  the  House  of  Barker,  the  hat 
of  the  latter  is  immediately  destroyed  in  this  man- 
ner. It  represents  the  absolute  finality  of  the 

65 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

act  of  homage  expressed  in  the  removal  of  it. 
It  declares  that  never  until  that  hat  shall  once 
more  appear  upon  your  head  (a  contingency 
which  I  firmly  believe  to  be  remote)  shall  the 
House  of  Barker  rebel  against  the  Crown  of 
England." 

Barker  stood  with  clenched  fist,  and  shaking 
lip. 

"Your  jokes,"  he  began,  "and  my  property — " 
and  then  exploded  with  an  oath,  and 
stopped  again. 

"Continue,  continue,"  said  the  King,  waving 
his  hands. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  cried  the  other, 
with  a  gesture  of  passionate  rationality.  "Are 
you  mad?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  replied  the  King,  pleasantly. 
"Madmen  are  always  serious ;  they  go  mad  from 
lack  of  humour.  You  are  looking  serious  your- 
self, Tames." 

"Why  can't  you  keep  it  to  your  own  private 
life?"  expostulated  the  other.  "You've  got 
plenty  of  money,  and  plenty  of  houses  now  to 
play  the  fool  in,  but  in  the  interests  of  the 
public—" 

"Epigrammatic,"  said  the  King,  shaking  his 
finger  sadly  at  him.  "None  of  your  daring 
.scintillations  here.  As  to  why  I  don't  do  it  in 

66 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


private,  I  rather  fail  to  understand  your  question. 
The  answer  is  of  comparative  limpidity.  I  don't 
do  it  in  private,  because  it  is  funnier  to  do  it  in 
public.  You  appear  to  think  that  it  would  be 
amusing  to  be  dignified  in  the  banquet  hall  and 
in  the  street,  and  at  my  own  fireside  (I  could 
procure  a  fireside)  to  keep  the  company  in  a 
roar.  But  that  is  what  every  one  does.  Every 
one  is  grave  in  public,  and  funny  in  private. 
My  sense  of  humour  suggests  the  reversal  of 
this;  it  suggests  that  one  should  be  funny  in 
public,  and  solemn  in  private.  I  desire  to  make 
the  State  functions,  parliaments,  coronations, 
and  so  on,  one  roaring  old-fashioned  panto- 
mime. But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  shut  myself 
up  alone  in  a  small  store-room  for  two  hours  a 
day,  where  I  am  so  dignified  that  I  come  out 
quite  ill." 

By  this  time  Barker  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  his  frock  coat  flapping  like  the  black 
wings  of  a  bird. 

"Well,  you  will  ruin  the  country,  that's  all,"  he 
said  shortly. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Auberon,  "that  the 
tradition  of  ten  centuries  is  being  broken,  and 
the  House  of  Barker  is  rebelling  against  the 
Crown  of  England.  It  would  be  with  regret  (for 
I  admire  your  appearance)  that  I  should  be 

67  ' 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

obliged  forcibly  to  decorate  your  head  with  the 
remains  of  this  hat,  but — " 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  said  Barker, 
flinging  up  his  fingers  with  a  feverish  American 
movement,  "is  why  you  don't  care  about  anything 
else  but  your  games." 

The  King  stopped  sharply  in  the  act  of 
lifting  the  silken  remnants,  dropped  them, 
and  walked  up  to  Barker,  looking  at  him 
steadily. 

"I  made  a  kind  of  vow,"  he  said,  "that  I  would 
not  talk  seriously,  which  always  means  answering 
silly  questions.  But  the  strong  man  will  always 
be  gentle  with  politicians. 

'The  shape  my  scornful  looks  deride 
Required  a  God  to  form;' 

if  I  may  so  theologically  express  myself.  And 
for  some  reason  I  cannot  in  the  least  understand, 
I  feel  impelled  to  answer  that  question  of  yours, 
and  to  answer  it  as  if  there  were  really 
such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  a  serious  subject. 
You  ask  me  why  I  don't  care  for  anything  else. 
Can  you  tell  me,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods 
you  don't  believe  in,  why  I  should  care  for  any- 
thing else?" 

"Don't  you  realise  common  public  necessities  ?" 
cried  Barker.  "Is  it  possible  that  a  man  of  your 

68 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


intelligence  does  not  know  that  it  is  every  one's 
interest — " 

"Don't  you  believe  in  Zoroaster  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  you  neglect  Mumbo- Jumbo  ?"  returned 
the  King,  with  startling  animation.  "Does 
a  man  of  your  intelligence  come  to  me 
with  these  damned  early  Victorian  ethics? 
If,  on  studying  my  features  and  manner,  you 
detect  any  particular  resemblance  to  the  Prince 
Consort,  I  assure  you  you  are  mistaken. 
Did  Herbert  Spencer  ever  convince  you-— did 
he  ever  convince  anybody — Did  he  ever  for  one 
mad  moment  convince  himself — that  it  must 
be  to  the  interest  of  the  individual  to  feel 
a  public  spirit?  Do  you  believe  that,  if 
you  rule  your  department  badly,  you  stand  any 
more  chance,  or  one  half  of  the  chance,  of  being 
guillotined,  that  an  angler  stands,  of  being  pulled 
into  the  river  by  a  strong  pike?  Herbert 
Spencer  refrained  from  theft  for  the  same  reason 
that  he  refrained  from  wearing  feathers  in  his 
hair,  because  he  was  an  English  gentleman  with 
different  tastes.  I  am  an  English  gentleman  with 
different  tastes.  He  liked  philosophy.  I  like 
art.  He  liked  writing  ten  books  on  the  nature 
of  human  society.  I  like  to  see  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  walking  in  front  of  me  with 
a  piece  of  paper  pinned  to  his  coat-tails.  It  is 

69 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

my  humour.  Are  you  answered?  At  any  rate, 
I  have  said  my  last  serious  word  to-day,  and  my 
last  serious  word  I  trust  for  the  remainder  of 
my  life  in  this  Paradise  of  Fools.  The  remainder 
of  my  conversation  with  you  to-day,  which 
I  trust  will  be  long  and  stimulating,  I  propose 
to  conduct  in  a  new  language  of  my  own 
by  means  of  rapid  and  symbolic  movements  of 
the  left  leg."  And  he  began  to  pirouette 
slowly  round  the  room  with  a  preoccupied 
expression. 

Barker  ran  round  the  room  after  him,  bom- 
barding him  with  demands  and  entreaties.  But 
he  received  no  response  except  in  the  new 
language.  He  came  out  banging  the  door  again, 
and  sick  like  a  man  coming  on  shore.  As 
he  strode  along  the  streets  he  found  himself 
suddenly  opposite  Cicconani's  restaurant,  and 
for  some  reason  there  rose  up  before  him 
the  green  fantastic  figure  of  the  Spanish 
General,  standing,  as  he  had  seen  him  last,  at 
the  door  with  the  words  on  his  lips,  "You 
cannot  argue  with  the  choice  of  the 
soul." 

The  King  came  out  from  his  dancing  with  the 
air  of  a  man  of  business  legitimately  tired.  He 
put  on  an  overcoat,  lit  a  cigar,  and  went  out  into 
the  purple  night. 

70 


I'M   KING  OF  THE  CASTLE" 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


"I  will  go,"  he  said,  "and  mingle  with  the 
people." 

He  passed  swiftly  up  a  street  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Notting  Hill,  when  suddenly  he 
felt  a  hard  object  driven  into  his  waistcoat. 
He  paused,  put  up  a  single  eye-glass,  and 
beheld  a  boy  with  a  wooden  sword  and  a  paper 
cocked  hat,  wearing  that  expression  of  awed 
satisfaction  with  which  a  child  contemplates  his 
work  when  he  has  hit  some  one  very  hard.  The 
King  gazed  thoughtfully  for  some  time  at  his 
assailant,  and  slowly  took  a  note-book  from  his 
breast-pocket. 

"I  have  a  few  notes,"  he  said,  "for  my 
dying  speech;"  and  he  turned  over  the  leaves. 
"Dying  speech  for  political  assassination; 
ditto,  if  by  former  friend — h'm,  h'm. 
Dying  speech  for  death  at  hands  of  injured  hus- 
band (repentant).  Dying  speech  for  same 
(cynical).  I  am  not  quite  sure  which  meets  the 
present.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  the  King  of  the  Castle,"  said  the  boy, 
truculently,  and  very  pleased  with  nothing  in 
particular. 

The  King  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  very 
fond  of  children,  like  all  people  who  are  fond  of 
the  ridiculous. 

"Infant,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad  you  are  so 
71 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

stalwart  a  defender  of  your  old  inviolate  Notting 
Hill.  Look  up  nightly  to  that  peak,  my  child, 
where  it  lifts  itself  among  the  stars  so  ancient, 
so  lonely,  so  unutterably  Notting.  So  long  as 
you  are  ready  to  die  for  the  sacred  mountain, 
even  if  it  were  ringed  with  all  the  armies  of 
Bayswater — " 

The  King  stopped  suddenly,  and  his  eyes 
shone. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "perhaps  the  noblest  of 
all  my  conceptions.  A  revival  of  the  arrogance 
of  the  old  mediaeval  cities  applied  to  our 
glorious  suburbs.  Clapham  with  a  city  guard. 
Wimbledon  with  a  city  wall.  Surbiton  tolling 
a  bell  to  raise  its  citizens.  West  Hampstead 
going  into  battle  with  its  own  banner.  It  shall 
be  done.  I,  the  King,  have  said  it."  And 
hastily  presenting  the  boy  with  half-a-crown, 
remarking,  "For  the  war-chest  of  Notting 
Hill,"  he  ran  violently  home  at  such  a  rate  of 
speed  that  crowds  followed  him  for  miles.  On 
reaching  his  study,  he  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  plunged  into  profound  meditation  upon  the 
project.  At  length  he  called  his  favourite 
Equerry,  Captain  Bowler,  for  whom  he  had  a 
deep  affection,  founded  principally  upon  the  shape 
of  his  whiskers. 

"Bowler,"  he  said,  "isn't  there  some  society  of 
72 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


historical  research,  or  something  of  which  I  am 
an  honorary  member?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Captain  Bowler,  rubbing  his 
nose,  "you  are  a  member  of  'The  Encouragers 
of  Egyptian  Renaissance,'  and  'The  Teutonic 
Tombs  Club,'  and  'The  Society  for  the  Recovery 
of  London  Antiquities/  and — " 

"That  is  admirable,"  said  the  King.  "The 
London  Antiquities  does  my  trick.  Go  to  the 
Society  for  the  Recovery  of  London  Antiquities 
and  speak  to  their  secretary,  and  their  sub- 
secretary,  and  their  president,  and  their  vice- 
president,  saying,  'The  King  of  England  is 
proud,  but  the  honorary  member  of  the  Society 
for  the  Recovery  of  London  Antiquities  is 
prouder  than  kings.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  of 
certain  discoveries  I  have  made  touching  the 
neglected  traditions  of  the  London  boroughs. 
The  revelations  may  cause  some  excitement, 
stirring  burning  memories  and  touching  old 
wounds  in  Shepherd's  Bush  and  Bayswater,  in 
Pimlico  and  South  Kensington.  The  King 
hesitates,  but  the  honorary  member  is  firm. 
I  approach  you  invoking  the  vows  of  my  initia- 
tion, the  Sacred  Seven  Cats,  the  Poker  of  Per- 
fection, and  the  Ordeal  of  the  Indescribable 
Instant  (forgive  me  if  I  mix  you  up  with  the 
Clan-na-Gael  or  some  other  club  I  belong  to), 

73 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

and  ask  you  to  permit  me  to  read  a  paper  at 
your  next  meeting  on  the  'Wars  of  the  London 
Boroughs/  Say  all  this  to  the  Society,  Bowler. 
Remember  it  very  carefully,  for  it  is  most 
important,  and  I  have  forgotten  it  altogether, 
and  send  me  another  cup  of  coffee  and  some 
of  the  cigars  that  we  keep  for  vulgar  and 
successful  people.  I  am  going  to  write  my 
paper." 

The  Society  for  the  Recovery  of  London 
Antiquities  met  a  month  after  in  a  corrugated 
iron  hall  on  the  outskirts  of  one  of  the  southern 
suburbs  of  London.  A  large  number  of  people 
had  collected  there  under  the  coarse  and  flaring 
gas-jets  when  the  King  arrived,  perspiring  and 
genial.  On  taking  off  his  great-coat,  he  was 
perceived  to  be  in  evening  dress,  wearing  the 
Garter.  His  appearance  at  the  small  table, 
adorned  only  with  a  glass  of  water,  was  received 
with  respectful  cheering. 

The  chairman  (Mr.  Huggins)  said  that  he  was 
sure  that  they  had  all  been  pleased  to  listen  to 
such  distinguished  lecturers  as  they  had  heard 
for  some  time  past  (hear,  hear).  Mr.  Burton 
(hear,  hear),  Mr.  Cambridge,  Professor  King 
(loud  and  continued  cheers),  our  old  friend  Peter 
Jessop,  Sir  William  White  (loud  laughter), 
and  other  eminent  men,  had  done  honour  to 

74 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


their  little  venture  (cheers).  But  there  were 
other  circumstances  which  lent  a  certain  unique 
quality  to  the  present  occasion  (hear,  hear).  So 
far  as  his  recollection  went,  and  in  connection 
with  the  Society  for  the  Recovery  of  London 
Antiquities  it  went  very  far  (loud  cheers),  he 
did  not  remember  that  any  of  their  lecturers  had 
borne  the  title  of  King.  He  would  therefore  call 
upon  King  Auberon  briefly  to  address  the 
meeting. 

The  King  began  by  saying  that  this  speech 
might  be  regarded  as  the  first  declaration  of 
his  new  policy  for  the  nation.  "At  this 
supreme  hour  of  my  life  I  feel  that  to  no  one 
but  the  members  of  the  Society  for  the  Recovery 
of  London  Antiquities  can  I  open  my  heart 
(cheers).  If  the  world  turns  upon  my  policy, 
and  the  storms  of  popular  hostility  begin 
to  rise  (no,  no),  I  feel  that  it  is  here,  with 
my  brave  Recoverers  around  me,  that  I 
can  best  meet  them,  sword  in  hand"  (loud 
cheers). 

His  Majesty  then  went  on  to  explain  that,  now 
old  age  was  creeping  upon  him,  he  proposed 
to  devote  his  remaining  strength  to  bring- 
ing about  a  keener  sense  of  local  patriotism 
in  the  various  municipalities  of  London.  How 
few  of  them  knew  the  legends  of  their  own 

75 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

boroughs !  How  many  there  were  who  had  never 
heard  of  the  true  origin  of  the  Wink  of 
Wandsworth!  What  a  large  proportion  of  the 
younger  generation  in  Chelsea  neglected  to 
perform  the  old  Chelsea  Chuff!  Pimlico  no 
longer  pumped  the  Pimlies.  Battersea  had  for- 
gotten the  name  of  Blick. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  a  voice  said 
"Shame." 

The  King  continued:  "Being  called,  how- 
ever unworthily,  to  this  high  estate,  I  have 
resolved  that,  so  far  as  possible,  this  neglect  shall 
cease.  I  desire  no  military  glory.  I  lay  claim 
to  no  constitutional  equality  with  Justinian 
or  Alfred.  If  I  can  go  down  to  history  as  the 
man  who  saved  from  extinction  a  few  old 
English  customs,  if  our  descendants  can  say 
it  was  through  this  man,  humble  as  he  was,  that 
the  Ten  Turnips  are  still  eaten  in  Fulham,  and 
the  Putney  parish  councillor  still  shaves  one  half 
of  his  head,  I  shall  look  my  great  fathers  rever- 
ently but  not  fearfully  in  the  face  when  I  go  down 
to  the  last  house  of  Kings." 

The  King  paused,  visibly  affected,  but  collect- 
ing himself,  resumed  once  more. 

"I  trust  that  to  very  few  of  you,  at  least,  I 
need  dwell  on  the  sublime  origins  of  these  legends. 
The  very  names  of  your  boroughs  bear  wit- 

76 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


ness  to  them.  So  long  as  Hammersmith  is 
called  Hammersmith,  its  people  will  live  in 
the  shadow  of  that  primal  hero,  the  Black- 
smith, who  led  the  democracy  of  the  Broadway 
into  battle  till  he  drove  the  chivalry  of 
Kensington  before  him  and  overthrew  them 
at  that  place  which  in  honour  of  the  best  blood 
of  the  defeated  aristocracy  is  still  called  Ken- 
sington Gore.  Men  of  Hammersmith  will  not 
fail  to  remember  that  the  very  name  of  Kensing- 
ton originated  from  the  lips  of  their  hero. 
For  at  the  great  banquet  of  reconciliation  held 
after  the  war,  when  the  disdainful  oligarchs 
declined  to  join  in  the  songs  of  the  men  of  the 
Broadway  (which  are  to  this  day  of  a  rude  and 
popular  character),  the  great  Republican  leader, 
with  his  rough  humour,  said  the  words  which 
are  written  in  gold  upon  his  monument,  'Little 
birds  that  can  sing  and  won't  sing,  must  be  made 
to  sing/  So  that  the  Eastern  Knights  were 
called  Cansings  or  Kensings  ever  afterwards. 
But  you  also  have  great  memories,  O  men 
of  Kensington!  You  showed  that  you  could 
sing,  and  sing  great  war-songs.  Even  after 
the  dark  day  of  Kensington  Gore,  history 
will  not  forget  those  three  Knights  who 
guarded  your  disordered  retreat  from  Hyde 
Park  (so  called  from  your  hiding  there),  those 

77 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

three  Knights  after  whom  Knightsbridge  is 
named.  Nor  will  it  forget  the  day  of  your 
re-emergence,  purged  in  the  fire  of  calamity, 
cleansed  of  your  oligarchic  corruptions,  when, 
sword  in  hand,  you  drove  the  Empire  of  Ham- 
mersmith back  mile  by  mile,  swept  it  past  its 
own  Broadway,  and  broke  it  at  last  in  a  battle 
so  long  and  bloody  that  the  birds  of  prey  have 
left  their  name  upon  it.  Men  have  called  it, 
with  austere  irony,  the  Ravenscourt.  I  shall 
not,  I  trust,  wound  the  patriotism  of  Bays- 
water,  or  the  lonelier  pride  of  Brompton,  or 
that  of  any  other  historic  township,  by  taking 
these  two  special  examples.  I  select  them,  not 
because  they  are  more  glorious  than  the  rest, 
but  partly  from  personal  association  (I  am 
myself  descended  from  one  of  the  three  heroes 
of  Knightsbridge),  and  partly  from  the  con- 
sciousness that  I  am  an  amateur  antiquarian, 
and  cannot  presume  to  deal  with  times  and 
places  more  remote  and  more  mysterious.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  settle  the  question  between 
two  such  men  as  Professor  Hugg  and  Sir 
William  Whisky  as  to  whether  Netting  Hill 
means  Nutting  Hill  (in  allusion  to  the  rich 
woods  which  no  longer  cover  it),  or  whether  it 
is  a  corruption  of  Nothing-ill,  referring  to  its 
reputation  among  the  ancients  as  an  Earthly 

78 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


Paradise.  When  a  Podkins  and  a  Jossy  con- 
fess themselves  doubtful  about  the  boundaries 
of  West  Kensington  (said  to  have  been  traced 
in  the  blood  of  Oxen),  I  need  not  be  ashamed 
to  confess  a  similar  doubt.  I  will  ask  you  to 
excuse  me  from  further  history,  and  to  assist 
me  with  your  encouragement  in  dealing  with 
the  problem  which  faces  us  to-day.  Is  this 
ancient  spirit  of  the  London  townships  to  die  out  ? 
Are  our  omnibus  conductors  and  policemen  to  lose 
altogether  that  light  which  we  see  so  often  in 
their  eyes,  the  dreamy  light  of 

'Old  unhappy  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago' 

— to  quote  the  words  of  a  little-known  poet 
who  was  a  friend  of  my  youth?  I  have  re- 
solved, as  I  have  said,  so  far  as  possible,  to 
preserve  the  eyes  of  policemen  and  omnibus 
conductors  in  their  present  dreamy  state.  For 
what  is  a  state  without  dreams?  And  the  remedy 
I  propose  is  as  follows : — 

"To-morrow  morning  at  twenty-five  minutes 
past  ten,  if  Heaven  spares  my  life,  I  purpose  to 
issue  a  Proclamation.  It  has  been  the  work  of 
my  life,  and  is  about  half  finished.  With  the 
assistance  of  a  whisky  and  soda,  I  shall  conclude 
the  other  half  to-night,  and  my  people  will 

79 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

receive  it  to-morrow.  All  these  boroughs  where 
you  were  born,  and  hope  to  lay  your  bones,  shall 
be  reinstated  in  their  ancient  magnificence, — 
Hammersmith,  Kensington,  Bayswater,  Chelsea, 
Battersea,  Clapham,  Balham,  and  a  hundred 
others.  Each  shall  immediately  build  a  city 
wall  with  gates  to  be  closed  at  sunset.  Each 
shall  have  a  city  guard,  armed  to  the  teeth. 
Each  shall  have  a  banner,  a  coat-of-arms,  and, 
if  convenient,  a  gathering  cry.  I  will  not  enter 
into  the  details  now,  my  heart  is  too  full. 
They  will  be  found  in  the  proclamation  itself. 
You  will  all,  however,  be  subject  to  enrolment 
in  the  local  city  guards,  to  be  summoned  to- 
gether by  a  thing  called  the  Tocsin,  the  meaning 
of  which  I  am  studying  in  my  researches  into 
history.  Personally,  I  believe  a  tocsin  to  be 
some  kind  of  highly  paid  official.  If,  therefore, 
any  of  you  happen  to  have  such  a  thing  as  a 
halberd  in  the  house,  I  should  advise  you  to  prac- 
tise with  it  in  the  garden." 

Here  the  King  buried  his  face  in  his  handker- 
chief and  hurriedly  left  the  platform,  overcome 
by  emotions. 

The  members  of  the  Society  for  the  Recovery 
of  London  Antiquities  rose  in  an  indescribable 
state  of  vagueness.  Some  were  purple  with 
indignation;  an  intellectual  few  were  purple  with 

80 


The  Charter  of  the  Cities 


laughter ;  the  great  majority  found  their  minds 
a  blank.  There  remains  a  tradition  that  one  pale 
face  with  burning  blue  eyes  remained  fixed  upon 
the  lecturer,  and  after  the  lecture  a  red-haired 
boy  ran  out  of  the  room. 


8r 


CHAPTER    II — The  Council  of  the  Provosts 

THE  King  got  up  early  next  morning 
and  came  down  three  steps  at  a 
time  like  a  schoolboy.  Having  eaten 
his  breakfast  hurriedly,  but  with  an  appetite, 
he  summoned  one  of  the  highest  officials  of 
the  Palace,  and  presented  him  with  a  shill- 
ing. "Go  and  buy  me,"  he  said,  "a  shill- 
ing paint-box,  which  you  will  get,  unless 
the  mists  of  time  mislead  me,  in  a  shop  at  the 
corner  of  the  second  and  dirtier  street  that 
leads  out  of  Rochester  Row.  I  have  already 
requested  the  Master  of  the  Buckhounds  to 
provide  me  with  cardboard.  It  seemed  to  me 
(I  know  not  why)  that  it  fell  within  his 
department." 

The  King  was  happy  all  that  morning  with 
his  cardboard  and  his  paint-box.  He  was 
engaged  in  designing  the  uniforms  and 
coats-of-arms  for  the  various  municipalities 
of  London.  They  gave  him  deep  and  no 
inconsiderable  thought.  He  felt  the  respon- 
sibility. 

"I  cannot  think,"  he  said,  "why  people  should 
think  the  names  of  places  in  the  country  more 

82 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


poetical  than  those  in  London.  Shallow 
romanticists  go  away  in  trains  and  stop  in  places 
called  Hugmy-in-the-Hole,  or  Bumps-on-the- 
Puddle.  And  all  the  time  they  could,  if  they 
liked,  go  and  live  at  a  place  with  the  dim, 
divine  name  of  St.  John's  Wood.  I  have 
never  been  to  St.  John's  Wood.  I  dare 
not.  I  should  be  afraid  of  the  innumer- 
able night  of  fir  trees,  afraid  to  come  upon 
a  blood-red  cup  and  the  beating  of  the  wings 
of  the  Eagle.  But  all  these  things  can  be 
imagined  by  remaining  reverently  in  the  Harrow 
train." 

And  he  thoughtfully  retouched  his  design  for 
the  head-dress  of  the  halberdier  of  St.  John's 
Wood,  a  design  in  black  and  red,  compounded 
of  a  pine  tree  and  the  plumage  of  an  eagle. 
Then  he  turned  to  another  card.  "Let  us 
think  of  milder  matters,"  he  said.  "Lavender 
Hill!  Could  any  of  your  glebes  and  combes 
and  all  the  rest  of  it  produce  so  fragrant  an 
idea?  Think  of  a  mountain  of  lavender 
lifting  itself  in  purple  poignancy  into  the  silver 
skies  and  filling  men's  nostrils  with  a  new 
breath  of  life — a  purple  hill  of  incense.  It  is 
true  that  upon  my  few  excursions  of  discovery 
on  a  halfpenny  tram  I  have  failed  to  hit  the 
precise  spot.  But  it  must  be  there;  some  poet 

83 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

called  it  by  its  name.  There  is  at  least  warrant 
enough  for  the  solemn  purple  plumes  (following 
the  botanical  formation  of  lavender)  which  I 
have  required  people  to  wear  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Clapham  Junction.  It  is  so  everywhere, 
after  all.  I  have  never  been  actually  to  South- 
fields,  but  I  suppose  a  scheme  of  lemons  and 
olives  represent  their  austral  instincts.  I  have 
never  visited  Parson's  Green,  or  seen  either  the 
Green  or  the  Parson,  but  surely  the  pale-green 
shovel-hats  I  have  designed  must  be  more  or  less 
in  the  spirit.  I  must  work  in  the  dark  and 
let  my  instincts  guide  me.  The  great  love  I 
bear  to  my  people  will  certainly  save  me  from 
distressing  their  noble  spirit  or  violating  their 
great  traditions." 

As  he  was  reflecting  in  this  vein,  the  door  was 
flung  open,  and  an  official  announced  Mr.  Barker 
and  Mr.  Lambert. 

Mr.  Barker  and  Mr.  Lambert  were  not  particu- 
larly surprised  to  find  the  King  sitting  on  the 
floor  amid  a  litter  of  water-colour  sketches. 
They  were  not  particularly  surprised  because  the 
last  time  they  had  called  on  him  they  had 
found  him  sitting  on  the  floor,  surrounded  by 
a  litter  of  children's  bricks,  and  the  time  before 
surrounded  by  a  litter  of  wholly  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  make  paper  darts.  But  the  trend  of 

84 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


the  royal  infant's  remarks,  uttered  from  amid 
this  infantile  chaos,  was  not  quite  the  same  affair. 
For  some  time  they  let  him  babble  on,  con- 
scious that  his  remarks  meant  nothing.  And 
then  a  horrible  thought  began  to  steal  over 
the  mind  of  James  Barker.  He  began  to 
think  that  the  King's  remarks  did  not  mean 
nothing. 

"In  God's  name,  Auberon,"  he  suddenly 
volleyed  out,  startling  the  quiet  hall,  "you 
don't  mean  that  you  are  really  going  to 
have  these  city  guards  and  city  walls  and 
things  ?" 

"I  am,  indeed,"  said  the  infant,  in  a  quiet 
voice.  "Why  shouldn't  I  have  them?  I  have 
modelled  them  precisely  on  your  political  prin- 
ciples. Do  you  know  what  I've  done, 
Barker?  I've  behaved  like  a  true  Barkerian. 
I've  .  .  .  but  perhaps  it  won't  interest  you,  the 
account  of  my  Barkerian  conduct." 

"Oh,  go  on,  go  on,"  cried  Barker. 

"The  account  of  my  Barkerian  conduct,"  said 
Auberon,  calmly,  "seems  not  only  to  interest,  but 
to  alarm  you.  Yet  it  is  very  simple.  It 
merely  consists  in  choosing  all  the  provosts 
under  any  new  scheme  by  the  same  principle 
by  which  you  have  caused  the  central  despot 
to  be  appointed.  Each  provost,  of  each  city, 

85 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

under  my  charter,  is  to  be  appointed  by 
rotation.  Sleep,  therefore,  my  Barker,  a  rosy 
sleep." 

Barker's  wild  eyes  flared. 

"But,  in  God's  name,  don't  you  see,  Quin, 
that  the  thing  is  quite  different?  In  the  centre 
it  doesn't  matter  so  much,  just  because  the 
whole  object  of  despotism  is  to  get  some  sort 
of  unity.  But  if  any  damned  parish  can  go  to 
any  damned  man — " 

"I  see  your  difficulty,"  said  King  Auberon, 
calmly.  "You  feel  that  your  talents  may  be 
neglected.  Listen!"  And  he  rose  with  im- 
mense magnificence.  "I  solemnly  give  to  my 
liege  subject,  James  Barker,  my  special  and 
splendid  favour,  the  right  to  override  the 
obvious  text  of  the  Charter  of  the  Cities,  and 
to  be,  in  his  own  right,  Lord  High  Provost  of 
South  Kensington.  And  now,  my  dear  James, 
you  are  all  right.  Good  day." 

"But-^"  began  Barker. 

"The  audience  is  at  an  end,  Provost,"  said  the 
King,  smiling. 

How  far  his  confidence  was  justified,  it  would 
require  a  somewhat  complicated  description  to 
explain.  "The  Great  Proclamation  of  the 
Charter  of  the  Free  Cities"  appeared  in  due 
course  that  morning,  and  was  posted  by  bill- 

86 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


stickers  all  over  the  front  of  the  Palace,  the 
King  assisting  them  with  animated  directions, 
and  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  contemplating  the  result.  It 
was  also  carried  up  and  down  the  main  thorough- 
fares by  sandwichmen,  and  the  King  was,  with 
difficulty,  restrained  from  going  out  in  that 
capacity  himself,  being,  in  fact,  found  by  the 
Groom  of  the  Stole  and  Captain  Bowler, 
struggling  between  two  boards.  His  excite- 
ment had  positively  to  be  quieted  like  that  of  a 
child. 

The  reception  which  the  Charter  of  the 
Cities  met  at  the  hands  of  the  public  may  mildly 
be  described  as  mixed.  In  one  sense  it  was 
popular  enough.  In  many  happy  homes  that 
remarkable  legal  document  was  read  aloud  on 
winter  evenings  amid  uproarious  appreciation, 
when  everything  had  been  learnt  by  heart  from 
that  quaint  but  immortal  old  classic,  Mr.  W. 
W.  Jacobs.  But  when  it  was  discovered 
that  the  King  had  every  intention  of  seriously 
requiring  the  provisions  to  be  carried  out,  of 
insisting  that  the  grotesque  cities,  with  their 
tocsins  and  city  guards,  should  really  come 
into  existence,  things  were  thrown  into  a 
far  angrier  confusion.  Londoners  had  no 
particular  objection  to  the  King  making  a 

87 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

fool  of  himself,  but  they  became  indig- 
nant when  it  became  evident  that  he 
wished  to  make  fools  of  them;  and  protests 
began  to  come  in. 

The  Lord  High  Provost  of  the  Good  and 
Valiant  City  of  West  Kensington  wrote  a  re- 
spectful letter  to  the  King,  explaining  that  upon 
State  occasions  it  would,  of  course,  be  his  duty 
to  observe  what  formalities  the  King  thought 
proper,  but  that  it  was  really  awkward  for  a 
decent  householder  not  to  be  allowed  to  go  out 
and  put  a  post-card  in  a  pillar-box  without 
being  escorted  by  five  heralds,  who  announced, 
with  formal  cries  and  blasts  of  a  trumpet,  that 
the  Lord  High  Provost  desired  to  catch  the 
post. 

The  Lord  High  Provost  of  North  Kensington, 
who  was  a  prosperous  draper,  wrote  a  curt  busi- 
ness note,  like  a  man  complaining  of  a  railway 
company,  stating  that  definite  inconvenience 
had  been  caused  him  by  the  presence  of  the  hal- 
berdiers, whom  he  had  to  take  with  him  every- 
where. When  attempting  to  catch  an  omnibus  to 
the  City,  he  had  found  that  while  room  could 
have  been  found  for  himself,  the  halberdiers  had 
a  difficulty  in  getting  into  the  vehicle — believe 
him,  theirs  faithfully. 

The  Lord  High  Provost  of  Shepherd's  Bush 
88 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 

said  his  wife  did  not  like  men  hanging  round  the 
kitchen. 

The  King  was  always  delighted  to  listen  to 
these  grievances,  delivering  lenient  and  kingly  an- 
swers, but  as  he  always  insisted,  as  the  abso- 
lute sine  qua  non,  that  verbal  complaints  should 
be  presented  to  him  with  the  fullest  pomp  of 
trumpets,  plumes,  and  halberds,  only  a  few  reso- 
lute spirits  were  prepared  to  run  the  gauntlet  of 
the  little  boys  in  the  street. 

Among  these,  however,  was  prominent  the 
abrupt  and  business-like  gentleman  who  ruled 
North  Kensington.  And  he  had  before  long, 
occasion  to  interview  the  King  about  a  matter 
wider  and  even  more  urgent  than  the  problem 
of  the  halberdiers  and  the  omnibus.  This  was 
the  greatest  question  which  then  and  for  long 
afterwards  brought  a  stir  to  the  blood  and  a 
flush  to  the  cheek  of  all  the  speculative  builders 
and  house  agents  from  Shepherd's  Bush  to  the 
Marble  Arch,  and  from  Westbourne  Grove  to 
High  Street,  Kensington.  I  refer  to  the  great 
affair  of  the  improvements  in  Notting  Hill. 
The  scheme  was  conducted  chiefly  by  Mr. 
Buck,  the  abrupt  North  Kensington  magnate, 
and  by  Mr.  Wilson,  the  Provost  of  Baycwater. 
A  great  thoroughfare  was  to  be  driven  through 
three  boroughs,  through  West  Kensington, 

89 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

North  Kensington  and  Notting  Hill,  opening 
at  one  end  into  Hammersmith  Broadway,  and 
at  the  other  into  Westbourne  Grove.  The 
negotiations,  buyings,  sellings,  bullying  and 
bribing  took  ten  years,  and  by  the  end  of 
it  Buck,  who  had  conducted  them  almost 
single-handed,  had  proved  himself  a  man  of  the 
strongest  type  of  material  energy  and  material 
diplomacy.  And  just  as  his  splendid  patience 
and  more  splendid  impatience  had  finally  brought 
him  victory,  when  workmen  were  already  de- 
molishing houses  and  walls  along  the  great  line 
from  Hammersmith,  a  sudden  obstacle  appeared 
that  had  neither  been  reckoned  with  nor  dreamed 
of,  a  small  and  strange  obstacle,  which,  like  a 
speck  of  grit  in  a  great  machine,  jarred  the 
whole  vast  scheme  and  brought  it  to  a  stand- 
still, and  Mr.  Buck,  the  draper,  getting  with 
great  impatience  into  his  robes  of  office  and 
summoning  with  indescribable  disgust  his 
halberdiers,  hurried  over  to  speak  to  the 
King. 

Ten  years  had  not  tired  the  King  of  his  joke. 
There  were  still  new  faces  to  be  seen  looking 
out  from  the  symbolic  head-gears  he  had 
designed,  gazing  at  him  from  amid  the  pastoral 
ribbons  of  Shepherd's  Bush  or  from  under  the 
sombre  hoods  of  the  Blackfriars  Road.  And  the 

90 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


interview  which  was  promised  him  with  the 
Provost  of  North  Kensington  he  anticipated 
with  a  particular  pleasure,  for  "he  never  really 
enjoyed,"  he  said,  "the  full  richness  of  the 
mediaeval  garments  unless  the  people  compelled 
to  wear  them  were  very  angry  and  business- 
like." 

Mr.  Buck  was  both.  At  the  King's  com- 
mand the  door  of  the  audience-chamber  was 
thrown  open  and  a  herald  appeared  in  the 
purple  colours  of  Mr.  Buck's  commonwealth 
emblazoned  with  the  Great  Eagle  which  the 
King  had  attributed  to  North  Kensington,  in 
vague  reminiscence  of  Russia,  for  he  always 
insisted  on  regarding  North  Kensington  as  some 
kind  of  semi-arctic  neighbourhood.  The  herald 
announced  that  the  Provost  of  that  city  desired 
audience  of  the  King. 

"From  North  Kensington?"  said  the  King, 
rising  graciously.  "What  news  does  he  bring 
from  that  land  of  high  hills  and  fair  women  ?  He 
is  welcome." 

The  herald  advanced  into  the  room,  and  was 
immediately  followed  by  twelve  guards  clad  in 
purple,  who  were  followed  by  an  attendant 
bearing  the  banner  of  the  Eagle,  who  was 
followed  by  another  attendant  bearing  the 
keys  of  the  city  upon  a  cushion,  who  was 

91 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

followed  by  Mr.  Buck  in  a  great  hurry. 
When  the  King  saw  his  strong  animal  face 
and  steady  eyes,  he  knew  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  man  of  business,  and  con- 
sciously braced  himself. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  cheerily  coming  down 
two  or  three  steps  from  a  dais,  and  striking  his 
hands  lightly  together,  "I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
Never  mind,  never  mind.  Ceremony  is  not 
everything." 

"I  don't  understand  your  Majesty,"  said  the 
Provost,  stolidly. 

"Never  mind,  never  mind,"  said  the  King, 
gaily.  "A  knowledge  of  Courts  is  by  no  means 
an  unmixed  merit;  you  will  do  it  next  time,  no 
doubt." 

The  man  of  business  looked  at  him  sulkily  from 
under  his  black  brows  and  said  again  without 
show  of  civility — 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"Well,  well,"  replied  the  King,  good-naturedly, 
"if  you  ask  me  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
not  because  I  myself  attach  any  importance  to 
these  forms  in  comparison  with  the  Honest 
Heart.  But  it  is  usual — it  is  usual — that  is 
all,  for  a  man  when  entering  the  presence 
of  Royalty  to  lie  down  on  his  back  on 
the  floor  and  elevating  his  feet  towards  heaven 

92 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


(as  the  source  of  Royal  power)  to  say 
three  times  'Monarchical  institutions  improve 
the  manners/  But  there,  there — such  pomp 
is  far  less  truly  dignified  than  your  simple 
kindliness." 

The  Provost's  face  was  red  with  anger  and  he 
maintained  silence. 

"And  now,"  said  the  King,  lightly,  and  with 
the  exasperating  air  of  a  man  softening  a  snub; 
"what  delightful  weather  we  are  having!  You 
must  find  your  official  robes  warm,  my  Lord. 
I  designed  them  for  your  own  snow-bound 
land." 

"They're  as  hot  as  Hell,"  said  Buck,  briefly.  "I 
came  here  on  business." 

"Right,"  said  the  King,  nodding  a  great 
number  of  times  with  quite  unmeaning  solem- 
nity; "right,  right,  right.  Business,  as  the  sad 
glad  old  Persian  said,  is  business.  Be  punctual. 
Rise  early.  Point  the  pen  to  the  shoulder. 
Point  the  pen  to  the  shoulder,  for  you  know 
not  whence  you  come  nor  why.  Point  the  pen 
to  the  shoulder,  for  you  know  not  when  you  go 
nor  where." 

The  Provost  pulled  a  number  of  papers 
from  his  pocket  and  savagely  flapped  them 
open. 

93 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"Your  Majesty  may  have  heard,"  he  began, 
sarcastically,  "of  Hammersmith  and  a  thing 
called  a  road.  We  have  been  at  work  ten 
years  buying  property  and  getting  compulsory 
powers  and  fixing  compensation  and  squaring 
vested  interests,  and  now  at  the  very  end, 
the  thing  is  stopped  by  a  fool.  Old  Prout, 
who  was  Provost  of  Notting  Hill,  was  a 
business  man,  and  we  dealt  with  him  quite 
satisfactorily.  But  he's  dead,  and  the  cursed 
lot  has  fallen  to  a  young  man  named  Wayne, 
who's  up  to  some  game  that's  perfectly 
incomprehensible  to  me.  We  offer  him  a 
better  price  than  any  one  ever  dreamt  of,  but 
he  won't  let  the  road  go  through.  And  his 
Council  seem  to  be  backing  him  up.  It's  mid- 
summer madness." 

The  King,  who  was  rather  inattentively 
engaged  in  drawing  the  Provost's  nose  with 
his  finger  on  the  window-pane,  heard  the  last  two 
words. 

"What  a  perfect  phrase  that  is,"  he  said. 
"  'Midsummer  madness !'  " 

"The  chief  point  is,"  continued  Buck, 
doggedly,  "that  the  only  part  that  is  really 
in  question  is  one  dirty  little  street — Pump 
Street — a  street  with  nothing  in  it  but  a  public 
house  and  a  penny  toy-shop,  and  that  sort  of 

94 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


thing.  All  the  respectable  people  of  Notting  Hill 
have  accepted  our  compensation.  But  the  in- 
effable Wayne  sticks  out  over  Pump  Street. 
Says  he's  Provost  of  Notting  Hill.  He's  only 
Provost  of  Pump  Street." 

"A  good  thought,"  replied  Auberon.  "  I  like 
the  idea  of  a  Provost  of  Pump  Street.  Why  not 
let  him  alone?" 

"And  drop  the  whole  scheme!"  cried  out 
Buck,  with  a  burst  of  brutal  spirit.  "I'll  be 
damned  if  we  do.  No.  I'm  for  sending 
in  workmen  to  pull  down  without  more 
ado." 

"Strike  for  the  purple  Eagle,"  cried  the  King, 
hot  with  historical  associations. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Buck,  losing 
his  temper  altogether.  "If  your  Majesty 
would  spend  less  time  in  insulting  respect- 
able people  with  your  silly  coats-of- 
arms,  and  more  time  over  the  business  of 
the  nation — " 

The  King's  brow  wrinkled  thoughtfully. 

"The  situation  is  not  bad,"  he  said;  "the 
haughty  burgher  defying  the  King  in  his  own 
Palace.  The  burgher's  head  should  be  thrown 
back  and  the  right  arm  extended;  the  left  may 
be  lifted  towards  Heaven,  but  that  I  leave  to 
your  private  religious  sentiment.  I  have  sunk 

95 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

back  in  this  chair,  stricken  with  baffled  fury.  Now 
again,  please." 

Buck's  mouth  opened  like  a  dog's,  but  before 
he  could  speak  another  herald  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"The  Lord  High  Provost  of  Bayswater,"  he 
said,  "desires  an  audience." 

"Admit  him,"  said  Auberon.  "This  is  a  jolly 
day." 

The  halberdiers  of  Bayswater  wore  a  pre- 
vailing uniform  of  green,  and  the  banner  which 
was  borne  after  them  was  emblazoned  with  a 
green  bay-wreath  on  a  silver  ground,  which  the 
King,  in  the  course  of  his  researches  into  a 
bottle  of  champagne,  had  discovered  to  be  the 
quaint  old  punning  cognisance  of  the  city  of 
Bayswater. 

"It  is  a  fit  symbol,"  said  the  King,  "your  im- 
mortal bay-wreath.  Fulham  may  seek  for 
wealth,  and  Kensington  for  art,  but  when 
did  the  men  of  Bayswater  care  for  anything  but 
glory?" 

Immediately  behind  the  banner,  and  almost 
completely  hidden  by  it_  came  the  Provost  of 
the  city,  clad  in  splendid  robes  of  green  and 
silver  with  white  fur  and  crowned  with  bay. 
He  was  an  anxious  little  man  with  red  whiskers, 
originally  the  owner  of  a  small  sweet-stuff  shop. 

96 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 

"Our  cousin  of  Bayswater,"  said  the  King, 
with  delight;  "what  can  we  get  for  you?" 
The  King  was  heard  also  distinctly  to  mutter, 
"Cold  beef,  cold  'am,  cold  chicken,"  his  voice 
dying  into  silence. 

"I  came  to  see  your  Majesty,"  said  the  Provost 
of  Bayswater,  whose  name  was  Wilson,  "about 
that  Pump  Street  affair." 

"I  have  just  been  explaining  the  situation  to 
his  Majesty,"  said  Buck,  curtly,  but  recovering 
his  civility.  "I  am  not  sure,  however,  whether 
his  Majesty  knows  how  much  the  matter  affects 
you  also." 

"It  affects  both  of  us,  yer  see,  yer  Majesty,  as 
this  scheme  was  started  for  the  benefit  of  the  'ole 
neighbourhood.  So  Mr.  Buck  and  me  we  put  our 
'eads  together — " 

The  King  clasped  his  hands. 

"Perfect,"  he  cried  in  ecstacy.  "Your  heads 
together !  I  can  see  it !  Can't  you  do  it  now  ?  Oh, 
do  do  it  now." 

A  smothered  sound  of  amusement  appeared  to 
come  from  the  halberdiers,  but  Mr.  Wilson 
looked  merely  bewildered,  and  Mr.  Buck  merely 
diabolical. 

"I  suppose,"  he  began,  bitterly,  but  the 
King  stopped  him  with  a  gesture  of  lis- 
tening. 

9Z 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"Hush,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  hear  some  one  else 
coming.  I  seem  to  hear  another  herald,  a  herald 
whose  boots  creak." 

As  he  spoke  another  voice  cried  from  the  door- 
way— 

"The  Lord  High  Provost  of  South  Kensington 
desires  an  audience." 

"The  Lord  High  Provost  of  South  Kensing- 
ton!" cried  the  King.  "Why,  that  is  my 
old  friend  James  Barker !  What  does  he  want 
I  wonder?  If  the  tender  memories  of  friendship 
have  not  grown  misty,  I  fancy  he  wants  some- 
thing for  himself,  probably  money.  How  are  you, 
James?" 

Mr.  James  Barker,  whose  guard  was  attired 
in  a  splendid  blue,  and  whose  blue  banner 
bore  three  gold  birds  singing,  rushed,  in 
his  blue  and  gold  robes,  into  the  room. 
Despite  the  absurdity  of  all  the  dresses, 
it  was  worth  noticing  that  he  carried  his 
better  than  the  rest,  though  he  loathed  it  as 
much  as  any  of  them.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  very  handsome  man,  and  could 
not  help  unconsciously  wearing  even  his 
preposterous  robe  as  it  should  be  worn. 
He  spoke  quickly,  but  with  the  slight 
initial  hesitation  he  always  showed  in  address- 
ing the  King,  due  to  suppressing  an  impulse 

98 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


to  address  his  old  acquaintance  in  the  old 
way. 

"Your  Majesty — pray  forgive  my  intrusion. 
It  is  about  this  man  at  Pump  Street.  I  see  you 
have  Buck  here,  so  you  have  probably  heard  what 
is  necessary.  I — " 

The  King  swept  his  eyes  anxiously  round  the 
room,  which  now  blazed  with  the  trappings  of 
three  cities. 

"There  is  one  thing  necessary,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  your  Majesty,"  said  Mr.  Wilson  of  Bays- 
water,  a  little  eagerly.  "What  does  yer  Majesty 
think  necessary?" 

"A  little  yellow,"  said  the  king,  firmly. 
"Send  for  the  Provost  of  West  Kensing- 
ton." 

Amid  some  materialistic  protests  he  was 
sent  for  and  arrived  with  his  yellow  halber- 
diers in  his  saffron  robes,  wiping  his  fore- 
head with  a  handkerchief.  After  all,  placed 
as  he  was,  he  had  a  good  deal  to  say  on 
the  matter. 

"Welcome,  West  Kensington,"  said  the 
King.  "I  have  long  wished  to  see  you,  touch- 
ing that  matter  of  the  Hammersmith  land  to 
the  south  of  the  Rowton  House.  Will  you 
hold  it  feudally  from  the  Provost  of  Hammer- 
smith? You  have  only  to  do  him  homage  by 

99 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

putting  his  left  arm  in  his  overcoat  and  then 
marching  home  in  state." 

"No,  your  Majesty;  I'd  rather  not," 
said  the  Provost  of  West  Kensington,  who 
was  a  pale  young  man  with  a  fair  mous- 
tache and  whiskers,  who  kept  a  successful 
dairy. 

The  King  struck  him  heartily  on  the 
shoulder. 

"The  fierce  old  West  Kensington  blood," 
he  said;  "they  are  not  wise  who  ask  it  to  do 
homage." 

Then  he  glanced  again  round  the  room.  It 
was  full  of  a  roaring  sunset  of  colour,  and  he 
enjoyed  the  sight,  possible  to  so  few  artists — 
the  sight  of  his  own  dreams  moving  and 
blazing  before  him.  In  the  foreground  the 
yellow  of  the  West  Kensington  liveries  out- 
lined itself  against  the  dark  blue  draperies  of 
South  Kensington.  The  crests  of  these  again 
brightened  suddenly  into  green  as  the  almost 
woodland  colours  of  Bayswater  rose  behind 
them.  And  over  and  behind  all,  the  great 
purple  plumes  of  North  Kensington  showed 
almost  funereal  and  black. 

"There  is  something  lacking,"  said  the  King, 
"something  lacking.  What  can — Ah,  there  it  is! 
—there  it  is !" 

too 


The  Council  of  the  Provosts 


In  the  doorway  had  appeared  a  new  figure,  a 
herald  in  flaming  red.  He  cried  in  a  loud  but 
unemotional  voice — 

"The  Lord  High  Provost  of  Netting  Hill  de- 
sires an  audience." 


IOI 


CHAPTER    III — Enter  a  Lunatic 

THE  King  of  the  Fairies,  who  was,  it  is 
to  be  presumed,  the  godfather  of  King 
Auberon,  must  have  been  very  favour- 
able on  this  particular  day  to  his  fantastic 
godchild,  for  with  the  entrance  of  the  guard 
of  the  Provost  of  Notting  Hill  there  was 
a  certain  more  or  less  inexplicable  addition 
to  his  delight.  The  wretched  navvies  and 
sandwich-men  who  carried  the  colours  of 
Bayswater  or  South  Kensington,  engaged 
merely  for  the  day  to  satisfy  the  Royal 
hobby,  slouched  into  the  room  with  a  com- 
paratively hang-dog  air,  and  a  great  part  of  the 
King's  intellectual  pleasure  consisted  in  the 
contrast  between  the  arrogance  of  their  swords 
and  feathers  and  the  meek  misery  of  their 
faces.  But  these  Notting  Hill  halberdiers  in 
their  red  tunics  belted  with  gold  had  the 
air  rather  of  an  absurd  gravity.  They 
seemed,  so  to  speak,  to  be  taking  part  in 
the  joke.  They  marched  and  wheeled  into 
position  with  an  almost  startling  dignity  and  dis- 
cipline. 

They  carried  a  yellow  banner  with  a  great 
red  lion,   named  by  the  King  as  the  Notting 

IO2 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


Hill  emblem,  after  a  small  public-house  in  the 
neighbourhood,  which  he  once  frequented. 

Between  the  two  lines  of  his  followers  there 
advanced  towards  the  King  a  tall,  red-haired 
young  man,  with  high  features,  and  bold  blue 
eyes.  He  would  have  been  called  handsome, 
but  that  a  certain  indefinable  air  of  his  nose 
being  too  big  for  his  face,  and  his  feet  for  his 
tegs,  gave  him  a  look  of  awkwardness  and 
extreme  youth.  His  robes  were  red,  according 
to  the  King's  heraldry,  and  alone  among  the 
Provosts,  he  was  girt  with  a  great  sword.  This 
was  Adam  Wayne,  the  intractable  Provost  of 
Notting  Hill. 

The  King  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
rubbed  his  hands. 

"What  a  day,  what  a  day !"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Now  there'll  be  a  row.  I'd  no  idea  it  would 
be  such  fun  as  it  is.  These  Provosts  are  so  very 
indignant,  so  very  reasonable,  so  very  right.  This 
fellow,  by  the  look  in  his  eyes,  is  even  more 
indignant  than  the  rest.  No  sign  in  those 
large  blue  eyes,  at  any  rate,  of  ever  having 
heard  of  a  joke.  He'll  remonstrate  with  the 
others,  and  they'll  remonstrate  with  him,  and 
they'll  all  make  themselves  sumptuously  happy 
remonstrating  with  me." 

"Welcome,  my  Lord,"  he  said  aloud.  "What 
103 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

news  from  the  Hill  of  a  Hundred  Legends? 
What  have  you  for  the  ear  of  your  King? 
I  know  that  troubles  have  arisen  between  you 
and  these  others,  our  cousins,  but  these 
troubles  it  shall  be  our  pride  to  compose.  And 
I  doubt  not,  and  cannot  doubt,  that  your  love 
for  me  is  not  less  tender,  no  less  ardent  than 
theirs." 

Mr.  Buck  made  a  bitter  face,  and  James 
Barker's  nostrils  curled;  Wilson  began  to 
giggle  faintly,  and  the  Provost  of  West  Ken- 
sington followed  in  a  smothered  way.  But  the 
big  blue  eyes  of  Adam  Wayne  never  changed, 
and  he  called  out  in  an  odd,  boyish  voice  down 
the  hall— 

"I  bring  homage  to  my  King.  I  bring  him  the 
only  thing  I  have — my  sword." 

And  with  a  great  gesture  he  flung  it  down 
on  the  ground,  and  knelt  on  one  knee  behind 
it. 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  King,  blankly. 

"You  speak  well,  sire,"  said  Adam  Wayne, 
"as  you  ever  speak,  when  you  say  that  my  love 
is  not  less  than  the  love  of  these.  Small  would 
it  be  if  it  were  not  more.  For  I  am  the  heir  of 
your  scheme — the  child  of  the  great  Charter. 
I  stand  here  for  the  rights  the  Charter  gave  me, 

104 


I    BRING     HOMAGE   TO   MY   KING" 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


and  I  swear,  by  your  sacred  crown,  that  where  I 
stand,  I  stand  fast." 

The  eyes  of  all  five  men  stood  out  of  their 
heads. 

Then  Buck  said,  in  his  jolly,  jarring  voice :  "Is 
the  whole  world  mad?" 

The  King  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  his  eyes 
blazed. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  exultation, 
"the  whole  world  is  mad,  but  Adam  Wayne 
and  me.  It  is  true  as  death  what  I  told  you 
long  ago,  James  Barker,  seriousness  sends  men 
mad.  You  are  mad,  because  you  care  for 
politics,  as  mad  as  a  man  who  collects  tram 
tickets.  Buck  is  mad,  because  he  cares  for 
money,  as  mad  as  a  man  who  lives  on  opium. 
Wilson  is  mad,  because  he  thinks  himself  right, 
as  mad  as  a  man  who  thinks  himself  God 
Almighty.  The  Provost  of  West  Kensington 
is  mad,  because  he  thinks  he  is  respectable,  as 
mad  as  a  man  who  thinks  he  is  a  chicken.  All 
men  are  mad,  but  the  humourist,  who  cares  for 
nothing  and  possesses  everything.  I  thought 
that  there  was  only  one  humourist  in  England. 
Fools! — dolts! — open  your  cows'  eyes;  there 
are  two!  In  Notting  Hill — in  that  unpromis- 
ing elevation — there  has  been  born  an  artist! 
You  thought  to  spoil  my  joke,  and  bully  me  out 

105 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

of  it,  by  becoming  more  and  more  modern,  more 
and  more  practical,  more  and  more  bustling 
and  rational.  Oh,  what  a  feast  it  was  to  answer 
you  by  becoming  more  and  more  august, 
more  and  more  gracious,  more  and  more  ancient 
and  mellow!  But  this  lad  has  seen  how  to  bowl 
me  out.  He  has  answered  me  back,  vaunt  for 
vaunt,  rhetoric  for  rhetoric.  He  has  lifted 
the  only  shield  I  cannot  break,  the  shield 
of  an  impenetrable  pomposity.  Listen  to  him. 
You  have  come,  my  Lord,  about  Pump 
Street?" 

"About  the  city  of  Notting  Hill,"  answered 
Wayne,  proudly.  "Of  which  Pump  Street  is  a 
living  and  rejoicing  part." 

"Not  a  very  large  part,"  said  Barker,  contemp- 
tuously. 

"That  which  is  large  enough  for  the  rich  to 
covet,"  said  Wayne,  drawing  up  his  head,  "is 
large  enough  for  the  poor  to  defend." 

The  King  slapped  both  his  legs,  and  waved  his 
feet  for  a  second  in  the  air. 

"Every  respectable  person  in  Notting  Hill," 
cut  in  Buck,  with  his  cold,  coarse  voice,  "is  for 
us  and  against  you.  I  have  plenty  of  friends  in 
Notting  Hill." 

"Your  friends  are  those  who  have  taken  your 
gold  for  other  men's  hearthstones,  my  Lord 

106 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


Buck,"  said  Provost  Wayne.  "I  can  well  believe 
they  are  your  friends." 

"They've  never  sold  dirty  toys,  anyhow,"  said 
Buck,  laughing  shortly. 

"They've  sold  dirtier  things,"  said  Wayne, 
calmly;  "they  have  sold  themselves." 

"It's  no  good,  my  Buckling,"  said  the  King, 
rolling  about  on  his  chair.  "You  can't  cope 
with  this  chivalrous  eloquence.  You  can't  cope 
with  an  artist.  You  can't  cope  with  the 
humourist  of  Netting  Hill.  O,  Nunc  dimittis — 
that  I  have  lived  to  see  this  day !  Provost  Wayne, 
you  stand  firm?" 

"Let  them  wait  and  see,"  said  Wayne.  "If 
I  stood  firm  before,  do  you  think  I  shall  weaken 
now  that  I  have  seen  the  face  of  the  King? 
For  I  fight  for  something  greater,  if  greater 
there  can  be,  than  the  hearthstones  of  my 
people  and  the  Lordship  of  the  Lion.  I  fight  for 
your  royal  vision,  for  the  great  dream  you 
dreamt  of  the  League  of  the  Free  Cities.  You 
have  given  me  this  liberty.  If  I  had  been  a 
beggar  and  you  had  flung  me  a  coin,  if  I  had 
been  a  peasant  in  a  dance  and  you  had  flung 
me  a  favour,  do  you  think  I  would  have  let  it 
be  taken  by  any  ruffians  on  the  road?  This 
leadership  and  liberty  of  Notting  Hill  is  a  gift 

from  your  Majesty.     And  if  it  is  taken  from 

IP7 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

me,  by  God!  it  shall  be  taken  in  battle,  and 
the  noise  of  that  battle  shall  be  heard  in  the 
flats  of  Chelsea  and  in  the  studios  of  St.  John's 
Wood." 

"It  is  too  much — it  is  too  much,"  said  the 
King.  "Nature  is  weak.  I  must  speak  to 
you,  brother  artist,  without  further  disguise. 
Let  me  ask  you  a  solemn  question.  Adam 
Wayne,  Lord  High  Provost  of  Notting  Hill, 
don't  you  think  it  splendid?" 

"Splendid!"  cried  Adam  Wayne.  "It  has  the 
splendour  of  God." 

"Bowled  out  again,"  said  the  King.  "You  will 
keep  up  the  pose.  Funnily,  of  course,  it  is  serious. 
But  seriously,  isn't  it  funny  ?" 

"What?"  asked  Wayne,  with  the  eyes  of  a 
baby. 

"Hang  it  all,  don't  play  any  more.  The  whole 
business — the  Charter  of  the  Cities.  Isn't  it  im- 
mense?" 

"Immense  is  no  unworthy  word  for  that  glori- 
ous design." 

"Oh,  hang  you — but,  of  course,  I  see.  You 
want  me  to  clear  the  room  of  these  reasonable 
sows.  You  want  the  two  humourists  alone 
together.  Leave  us,  gentlemen." 

Buck  threw  a  sour  look  at  Barker,  and  at  a 
sullen  signal  the  whole  pageant  of  blue  and  green, 

108 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


of  red,  gold  and  purple  rolled  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  only  two  in  the  great  hall,  the  King 
sitting  in  his  seat  on  the  dais,  and  the  red-clad 
figure  still  kneeling  on  the  floor  before  his  fallen 
sword. 

The  King  bounded  down  the  steps  and  smacked 
Provost  Wayne  on  the  back. 

"Before  the  stars  were  made,"  he  cried,  "we 
were  made  for  each  other.  It  is  too  beautiful. 
Think  of  the  valiant  independence  of  Pump  Street. 
That  is  the  real  thing.  It  is  the  deification  of  the 
ludicrous." 

The  kneeling  figure  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a 
fierce  stagger. 

"Ludicrous !"  he  cried,  with  a  fiery  face. 

"Oh  come,  come,"  said  the  King,  impatiently. 
"You  needn't  keep  it  up  with  me.  The  augurs 
must  wink  sometimes  from  sheer  fatigue  of  the 
eyelids.  Let  us  enjoy  this  for  half  an  hour,  not 
as  actors,  but  as  dramatic  critics.  Isn't  it  a  joke?" 

Adam  Wayne  looked  down  like  a  boy,  and 
answered  in  a  constrained  voice — 

"I  do  not  understand  your  Majesty.  I  cannot 
believe  that  while  I  fight  for  your  royal  charter 
your  Majesty  deserts  me  for  these  dogs  of  the 
gold  hunt." 

"Oh,  damn  your—  But  wfiat's  this?  What  the 
devil's  this?" 

109 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

The  King  stared  into  the  young  Provost's 
face,  and  in  the  twilight  of  the  room  began 
to  see  that  his  face  was  quite  white  and  his  lip 
shaking. 

"What  in  God's  name  is  the  matter?"  criof 
Auberon,  holding  his  wrist. 

Wayne  flung  back  his  face,  and  the  tears  were 
shining  on  it. 

"I  am  only  a  boy,"  he  said,  "but  it's  true.  I 
would  paint  the  Red  Lion  on  my  shield  if  I  had 
only  my  blood." 

King  Auberon  dropped  the  hand  and  stood 
without  stirring,  thunderstruck. 

"My  God  in  Heaven!"  he  said;  "is  it 
possible  that  there  is  within  the  four  seas  of 
Britain  a  man  who  takes  Notting  Hill  seri- 
ously?—" 

"And  my  God  in  Heaven!"  said  Wayne  pas- 
sionately; "is  it  possible  that  there  is  within  the 
four  seas  of  Britain  a  man  who  does  not  take  it 
seriously  ?" 

The  King  said  nothing,  but  merely  went 
back  up  the  steps  of  the  dais,  like  a  man  dazed. 
He  fell  back  in  his  chair  again  and  kicked  his 
heels. 

"If  this  sort  of  thing  is  to  go  on,"  he  said 
weakly,  "I  shall  begin  to  doubt  the  superiority 
of  art  to  life.  In  Heaven's  name,  do  not  play 

no 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


with  me.  Do  you  really  mean  that  you  are — 
God  help  me! — a  Netting  Hill  patriot — that  you 
are—" 

Wayne  made  a  violent  gesture,  and  the  King 
soothed  him  wildly. 

"All  right — all  right — I  see  you  are;  but  let 
me  take  it  in.  You  do  really  propose  to 
fight  these  modern  improvers  with  their  boards 
and  inspectors  and  surveyors  and  all  the  rest 
of  it—" 

"Are  they  so  terrible?"  asked  Wayne,  scorn- 
fully. 

The  King  continued  to  stare  at  him  as  if  he 
were  a  human  curiosity. 

"And  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  you  think  that 
the  dentists  and  small  tradesmen  and  maiden 
ladies  who  inhabit  Notting  Hill,  will  rally  with 
war-hymns  to  your  standard?" 

"If  they  have  blood  they  will,"  said  the 
Provost. 

"And  I  suppose,"  said  the  King,  with  his  head 
back  among  the  cushions,  "that  it  never 
crossed  your  mind  that" — his  voice  seemed  to 
lose  itself  luxuriantly — "never  crossed  your  mind 
that  any  one  ever  thought  that  the  idea  of  a 
Notting  Hill  idealism  was — er — slightly — slightly 
ridiculous." 

"Of    course    they    think    so,"    said    Wayne, 
in 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"What  was  the  meaning  of  mocking  the 
prophets  ?" 

"Where?"  asked  the  King,  leaning  forward. 
"Where  in  Heaven's  name  did  you  get  this  mirac- 
ulously inane  idea?" 

"You  have  been  my  tutor,  Sire,"  said  the 
Provost,  "in  all  that  is  high  and  honour- 
able/' 

"Elff"  said  the  King. 

"It  was  your  Majesty  who  first  stirred  my  dim 
patriotism  into  flame.  Ten  years  ago,  when  I 
was  a  boy  (I  am  only  nineteen),  I  was  playing 
on  the  slope  of  Pump  Street,  with  a  wooden 
sword  and  a  paper  helmet,  dreaming  of  great 
wars.  In  an  angry  trance  I  struck  out  with 
my  sword  and  stood  petrified,  for  I  saw  that  I 
had  struck  you,  Sire,  my  King,  as  you  wandered 
in  a  noble  secrecy,  watching  over  your  people's 
welfare.  But  I  need  have  had  no  fear.  Then 
was  I  taught  to  understand  Kingliness.  You 
neither  shrank  nor  frowned.  You  summoned 
no  guards.  You  invoked  no  punishments. 
But  in  august  and  burning  words,  which  are 
written  in  my  soul,  never  to  be  erased,  you 
told  me  ever  to  turn  my  sword  against  the 
enemies  of  my  inviolate  city.  Like  a  priest 
pointing  to  the  altar,  you  pointed  to  the  hill  of 
Notting.  'So  long,'  you  said,  'as  you  are 

112 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


ready  to  die  for  the  sacred  mountain,  even  if  it 
were  ringed  with  all  the  armies  of  Bayswater.' 
I  have  not  forgotten  the  words,  and  I  have 
reason  now  to  remember  them,  for  the  hour  is 
come  and  the  crown  of  your  prophecy.  The  sacred 
hill  is  ringed  with  the  armies  of  Bayswater,  and 
I  am  ready  to  die." 

The  King  was  lying  back  in  his  chair,  a  kind  of 
wreck. 

"O  Lord,  Lord,  Lord,"  he  murmured,  "what 
a  life!  what  a  life!  All  my  work!  I 
seem  to  have  done  it  all.  So  you're  the  red- 
haired  boy  that  hit  me  in  the  waistcoat.  What 
have  I  done?  God,  what  have  I  done?  I 
thought  I  would  have  a  joke,  and  I  have 
created  a  passion.  I  tried  to  compose  a 
burlesque,  and  it  seems  to  be  turning  halfway 
through  into  an  epic.  What  is  to  be  done 
with  such  a  world?  In  the  Lord's  name, 
wasn't  the  joke  broad  and  bold  enough?  I 
abandoned  my  subtle  humour  to  amuse  you,  and 
I  seem  to  have  brought  tears  to  your  eyes.  What's 
to  be  done  with  people  when  you  write  a 
pantomime  for  them — call  the  sausages  classic 
festoons,  and  the  policeman  cut  in  two  a  tragedy 
of  public  duty?  But  why  am  I  talking?  Why 
am  I  asking  questions  of  a  nice  young  gentle- 
man who  is  totally  mad  ?  What  is  the  good  of  it  ? 


The  "Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

What  is  the  good  of  anything?  O  Lord,  O 
Lord!" 

Suddenly  he  pulled  himself  upright. 

"Don't  you  really  think  the  sacred  Notting  Hill 
at  all  absurd?" 

"Absurd?"  asked  Wayne,  blankly.  "Why 
should  I?" 

The  King  stared  back  equally  blankly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?"  he  said. 

"Notting  Hill,"  said  the  Provost,  simply,  "is 
a  rise  or  high  ground  of  the  common  earth,  on 
which  men  have  built  houses  to  live,  in  which  they 
are  born,  fall  in  love,  pray,  marry,  and  die.  Why 
should  I  think  it  absurd?" 

The  King  smiled. 

"Because,  my  Leonidas — "  he  began,  then 
suddenly,  he  knew  not  how,  found  his  mind 
was  a  total  blank.  After  all,  why  was  it 
absurd?  Why  was  it  absurd?  He  felt  as 
if  the  floor  of  his  mind  had  given  way.  He  felt 
as  all  men  feel  when  their  first  principles  are 
hit  hard  with  a  question.  Barker  always 
felt  so  when  the  King  said,  "Why  trouble  about 
politics  ?" 

The  King's  thoughts  were  in  a  kind  of  rout; 
he  could  not  collect  them. 

"It  is  generally  felt  to  be  a  little  funny,"  he 

said,  vaguely. 

114 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


"I  suppose,"  said  Adam,  turning  on  him  with 
a  fierce  suddenness,  "I  suppose  you  fancy  cruci- 
fixion was  a  serious  affair?" 

"Well,  I—"  began  Auberon,  "I  admit  I 
have  generally  thought  it  had  its  graver 
side." 

"Then  you  are  wrong,"  said  Wayne,  with 
incredible  violence.  "Crucifixion  is  comic.  It 
is  exquisitely  diverting.  It  was  an  absurd  and 
obscene  kind  of  impaling  reserved  for  people  who 
were  made  to  be  laughed  at — for  slaves  and  pro- 
vincials— for  dentists  and  small  tradesmen,  as  you 
would  say.  I  have  seen  the  grotesque  gallows- 
shape,  which  the  little  Roman  gutter-boys 
scribbled  on  walls  as  a  vulgar  joke,  blazing 
on  the  pinnacles  of  the  temples  of  the  world.  And 
shall  I  turn  back?" 

The  King  made  no  answer. 

Adam  went  on,  his  voice  ringing  in  the 
roof. 

"This  laughter  with  which  men  tyrannise  is 
not  the  great  power  you  think  it.  Peter  was 
crucified,  and  crucified  head  downwards. 
What  could  be  funnier  than  the  idea  of  a 
respectable  old  Apostle  upside  down?  What 
could  be  more  in  the  style  of  your  modern 
humour?  But  what  was  the  good  of  it? 
Upside  down  or  right  side  up,  Peter  was  Peter 

"5 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

to  mankind.  Upside  down  he  still  hangs  over 
Europe,  and  millions  move  and  breathe  only  in 
the  life  of  his  church." 

King  Auberon  got  up  absently. 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say/*  he 
said.  "You  seem  to  have  been  thinking,  young 
man." 

"Only  feeling,  sire,"  answered  the  Provost  "I 
was  born,  like  other  men,  in  a  spot  of  the 
earth  which  I  loved  because  I  had  played  boys' 
games  there,  and  fallen  in  love,  and  talked  with 
my  friends  through  nights  that  were  nights  of 
the  gods.  And  I  feel  the  riddle.  These 
little  gardens  where  we  told  our  loves.  These 
streets  where  we  brought  out  our  dead.  Why 
should  they  be  commonplace?  Why  should 
they  be  absurd?  Why  should  it  be  grotesque 
to  say  that  a  pillar-box  is  poetic  when  for  a 
year  I  could  not  see  a  red  pillar-box  against  the 
yellow  evening  in  a  certain  street  without  being 
wracked  with  something  of  which  God  keeps 
the  secret,  but  which  is  stronger  than  sorrow  or 
joy?  Why  should  any  one  be  able  to 
raise  a  laugh  by  saying  'the  Cause  of  Notting 
Hill'? — Notting  Hill  where  thousands  of 
immortal  spirits  blaze  with  alternate  hope  and 
fear." 

Auberon  was  flicking  dust  off  his  sleeve  with 
116 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


quite  a  new  seriousness  on  his  face,  distinct  from 
the  owlish  solemnity  which  was  the  pose  of  his 
humour. 

"It  is  very  difficult,"  he  said  at  last.  "It 
is  a  damned  difficult  thing.  I  see  what  you 
mean — I  agree  with  you  even  up  to  a  point 
—or  I  should  like  to  agree  with  you,  if 
I  were  young  enough  to  be  a  prophet 
and  poet.  I  feel  a  truth  in  everything  you 
say  until  you  come  to  the  words  'Notting 
Hill.'  And  then  I  regret  to  say  that  the  old 
Adam  awakes  roaring  with  laughter  and  makes 
short  work  of  the  new  Adam,  whose  name  is 
Wayne." 

For  the  first  time  Provost  Wayne  was  silent, 
and  stood  gazing  dreamily  at  the  floor.  Even- 
ing was  closing  in,  and  the  room  had  grown 
darker. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  in  a  strange,  almost 
sleepy  voice,  "there  is  truth  in  what  you  say, 
too.  It  is  hard  not  to  laugh  at  the  common 
names — I  only  say  we  should  not.  I  have 
thought  of  a  remedy ;  but  such  thoughts  are  rather 
terrible." 

"What  thoughts?"  asked  Auberon. 

The  Provost  of  Notting  Hill  seemed  to  have 
fallen  into  a  kind  of  trance;  in  his  eyes  was  an 
elvish  light. 

117 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

"I  know  of  a  magic  wand,  but  it  is  a  wand 
that  only  one  or  two  may  rightly  use,  and  only 
seldom.  It  is  a  fairy  wand  of  great  fear,  stronger 
than  those  who  use  it — often  frightful,  often 
wicked  to  use.  But  whatever  is  touched  with 
it  is  never  again  wholly  common.  Whatever 
is  touched  with  it  takes  a  magic  from  outside 
the  world.  If  I  touch,  with  this  fairy  wand, 
the  railways  and  the  roads  of  Netting  Hill, 
men  will  love  them,  and  be  afraid  of  them  for 
ever." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about?"  asked 
the  King. 

"It  has  made  mean  landscapes  magnificent, 
and  hovels  outlast  cathedrals,"  went  on  the 
madman.  "Why  should  it  not  make  lamp- 
posts fairer  than  Greek  lamps,  and  an 
omnibus  ride  like  a  painted  ship?  The 
touch  of  it  is  the  finger  of  a  strange  per- 
fection." 

"What  is  your  wand?"  cried  the  King,  im- 
patiently. 

"There  it  is,"  said  Wayne;  and  pointed 
to  the  floor,  where  his  sword  lay  flat  and 
shining. 

"The  sword!"  cried  the  King;  and  sprang  up 
straight  on  the  dais. 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Wayne,  hoarsely.  "The 
118 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


things  touched  by  that  are  not  vulgar.  The  things 
touched  by  that — " 

King  Auberon  made  a  gesture  of  horror. 

"You  will  shed  blood  for  that !"  he  cried.  "For 
a  cursed  point  of  view — " 

"Oh,  you  kings,  you  kings,"  cried  out  Adam, 
in  a  burst  of  scorn.  "How  humane  you  are,  how 
tender,  how  considerate.  You  will  make  war 
for  a  frontier,  or  the  imports  of  a  foreign  har- 
bour; you  will  shed  blood  for  the  precise  duty 
on  lace,  or  the  salute  to  an  admiral.  But  for 
the  things  that  make  life  itself  worthy  or 
miserable — how  humane  you  are.  I  say  here, 
and  I  know  well  what  I  speak  of,  there  were 
never  any  necessary  wars  but  the  religious 
wars.  There  were  never  any  just  wars  but 
the  religious  wars.  There  were  never  any 
humane  wars  but  the  religious  wars.  For 
these  men  were  fighting  for  something  that 
claimed,  at  least,  to  be  the  happiness  of  a 
man,  the  virtue  of  a  man.  A  Crusader 
thought,  at  least,  that  Islam  hurt  the  soul  of  every 
man,  king  or  tinker,  that  it  could  really  cap- 
ture. I  think  Buck  and  Barker  and  these 
rich  vultures  hurt  the  soul  of  every  man,  hurt 
every  inch  of  the  ground,  hurt  every  brick  of  the 
houses,  that  they  can  really  capture.  Do  you 
think  I  have  no  right  to  fight  for  Netting  Hill, 

119 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

you  whose  English  Government  has  so  often 
fought  for  tomfooleries?  If,  as  your  rich 
friends  say,  there  are  no  gods,  and  the  skies 
are  dark  above  us,  what  should  a  man  fight  for, 
but  the  place  where  he  had  the  Eden  of 
childhood  and  the  short  heaven  of  first  love?  If 
no  temples  and  no  scriptures  are  sacred, 
what  is  sacred  if  a  man's  own  youth  is 
not  sacred?" 

The  King  walked  a  little  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  da'is. 

"It  is  hard,"  he  said,  biting  his  lips,  "to 
assent  to  a  view  so  desperate — so  respon- 
sible .  .  ." 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  of  the  audience  chamber 
fell  ajar,  and  through  the  aperture  came,  like  the 
sudden  chatter  of  a  bird,  the  high,  nasal,  but  well- 
bred  voice  of  Barker. 

"I  said  to  him  quite  plainly — the  public  inter- 
ests—" 

Auberon  turned  on  Wayne  with  violence. 

"What  the  devil  is  all  this?  What  am  I 
saying?  What  are  you  saying?  Have  you 
hypnotised  me?  Curse  your  uncanny  blue 
eyes!  Let  me  go.  Give  me  back  my  sense 
of  humour.  Give  it  me  back.  Give  it  me  back, 
I  say!" 

"I  solemnly  assure  you,"  said  Wayne,  uneasily, 
1 20 


Enter  a  Lunatic 


with  a  gesture,  as  if  feeling  all  over  himself,  "that 
I  haven't  got  it." 

The  King  fell  back  in  his  chair,  and  went  into 
a  roar  of  Rabelaisian  laughter. 

"I  don't  think  you  have,"  he  cried. 


121 


BOOK  III 


CHAPTER    I — The    Mental    Condition    of 
Adam  Wayne 

A  LITTLE  while  after  the  King's  acces- 
sion a  small  book  of  poems  appeared, 
called  "Hymns  on  the  Hill."  They 
were  not  good  poems,  nor  was  the  .book 
successful,  but  it  attracted  a  certain  amount 
of  attention  from  one  particular  school  of 
critics.  The  King  himself,  who  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  school,  reviewed  it  in  his  capacity 
of  literary  critic  to  "Straight  from  the 
Stables,"  a  sporting  journal.  They  were  known 
as  the  Hammock  School,  because  it  had  been  cal- 
culated malignantly  by  an  enemy  that  no  less 
than  thirteen  of  their  delicate  criticisms  had 
begun  with  the  words,  "I  read  this  book  in  a 
hammock:  half  asleep  in  the  sleepy  sunlight, 
I  .  .  .  ";  after  that  there  were  important 
differences.  Under  these  conditions  they  liked 
everything,  but  especially  everything  silly. 
"Next  to  authentic  goodness  in  a  book,"  they 
said — "next  to  authentic  goodness  in  a  book 
(and  that,  alas!  we  never  find)  we  desire  a  rich 
badness."  Thus  it  happened  that  their  praise 
(as  indicating  the  presence  of  a  rich  badness) 
was  not  universally  sought  after,  and  authors 

125 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

became  a  little  disquieted  when  they  found  the 
eye  of  the  Hammock  School  fixed  upon  them  with 
peculiar  favour. 

The  peculiarity  of  "Hymns  on  the  Hill" 
was  the  celebration  of  the  poetry  of  London  as 
distinct  from  the  poetry  of  the  country.  This 
sentiment  or  affectation,  was  of  course,  not  un- 
common in  the  twentieth  century,  nor  was  it, 
although  sometimes  exaggerated,  and  sometimes 
artificial,  by  any  means  without  a  great  truth 
at  its  root,  for  there  is  one  respect  in  which 
a  town  must  be  more  poetical  than  the  country, 
since  it  is  closer  to  the  spirit  of  man;  for 
London,  if  it  be  not  one  of  the  masterpieces  of 
man,  is  at  least  one  of  his  sins.  A  street  is 
really  more  poetical  than  a  meadow,  because 
a  street  has  a  secret.  A  street  is  going  some- 
where, and  a  meadow  nowhere.  But,  in  the 
case  of  the  book  called  "Hymns  on  the  Hill," 
there  was  another  peculiarity,  which  the  King 
pointed  out  with  great  acumen  in  his  review.  He 
was  naturally  interested  in  the  matter,  for 
he  had  himself  published  a  volume  of  lyrics 
about  London  under  his  pseudonym  of  "Daisy 
Daydream." 

This  difference,  as  the  King  pointed  out,  con- 
sisted in  the  fact  that,  while  mere  artificers  like 
"Daisy  Daydream"  (on  whose  elaborate  style  the 

126 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

King,  over  his  signature  of  "Thunderbolt," 
was  perhaps  somewhat  too  severe)  thought  to 
praise  London  by  comparing  it  to  the  country — 
using  nature,  that  is,  as  a  background  from  which 
all  poetical  images  had  to  be  drawn — the  more 
robust  author  of  "Hymns  on  the  Hill"  praised 
the  country,  or  nature,  by  comparing  it  to  the 
town,  and  used  the  town  itself  as  a  background. 
"Take,"  said  the  critic,  "the  typically  feminine 
lines,  To  the  Inventor  of  The  Hansom  Cab' — 

'Poet,  whose  cunning  carved  this  amorous  shell, 
Where  twain  may  dwell.' 

"Surely,"  wrote  the  King,  "no  one  but  a 
woman  could  have  written  those  lines.  A 
woman  has  always  a  weakness  for  nature;  with 
her,  art  is  only  beautiful  as  an  echo  or  shadow 
of  it.  She  is  praising  the  hansom  cab  by 
theme  and  theory,  but  her  soul  is  still  a  child  by 
the  sea,  picking  up  shells.  She  can  never  be 
utterly  of  the  town,  as  a  man  can;  indeed,  do 
we  not  speak  (with  sacred  propriety)  of  'a 
man  about  town'?  Who  ever  spoke  of  a 
woman  about  town?  However  much,  physically, 
'about  town'  a  woman  may  be,  she  still 
models  herself  on  nature;  she  tries  to  carry 
nature  with  her;  she  bids  grasses  to  grow 
on  her  head,  and  furry  beasts  to  bite  her  about 

127 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  throat.  In  the  heart  of  a  dim  city,  she 
models  her  hat  on  a  flaring  cottage  garden  of 
flowers.  We,  with  our  nobler  civic  sentiment, 
model  ours  on  a  chimney  pot ;  the  ensign  of  civili- 
sation. And  rather  than  be  without  birds,  she 
will  commit  massacre,  that  she  may  turn 
her  head  into  a  tree,  with  dead  birds  to  sing 
on  it." 

This  kind  of  thing  went  on  for  several  pages, 
and  then  the  critic  remembered  his  subject,  and 
returned  to  it. 

"Poet,  whose  cunning  carved  this  amorous  shell. 
Where  twain  may  dwell." 

"The  peculiarity  of  these  fine  though  femi- 
nine lines,"  continued  "Thunderbolt,"  "is,  as 
we  have  said,  that  they  praise  the  hansom  cab 
by  comparing  it  to  the  shell,  to  a  natural  thing. 
Now,  hear  the  author  of  'Hymns  on  the  Hill,' 
and  how  he  deals  with  the  same  subject.  In 
his  fine  nocturne,  entitled  'The  Last  Omni- 
bus/ he  relieves  the  rich  and  poignant  melancholy 
of  the  theme  by  a  sudden  sense  of  rushing  at  the 
end — 

•The  wind  round  the  old  street  corner 
Swung  sudden  and  quick  as  a  cab.' 

"Here    the    distinction    is    obvious.      'Daisy 
128 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

Daydream'  thinks  it  a  great  compliment  to  a 
hansom  cab  to  be  compared  to  one  of  the  spiral 
chambers  of  the  sea.  And  the  author  of 
'Hymns  on  the  Hill'  thinks  it  a  great  compli- 
ment to  the  immortal  whirlwind  to  be  compared 
to  a  hackney  coach.  He  surely  is  the  real 
admirer  of  London.  We  have  no  space  to  speak 
of  all  his  perfect  applications  of  the  idea;  of  the 
poem  in  which,  for  instance,  a  lady's  eyes  are 
compared,  not  to  stars,  but  to  two  perfect  street- 
lamps  guiding  the  wanderer.  We  have  no 
space  to  speak  of  the  fine  lyric,  recalling  the 
Elizabethan  spirit,  in  which  the  poet,  instead  of 
saying  that  the  rose  and  the  lily  contend  in  her 
complexion,  says,  with  a  purer  modernism,  that 
the  red  omnibus  of  Hammersmith  and  the 
white  omnibus  of  Fulham  fight  there  for  the 
mastery.  How  perfect  the  image  of  two  contend- 
ing omnibuses !" 

Here,  somewhat  abruptly,  the  review  con- 
cluded, probably  because  the  King  had  to  send 
off  his  copy  at  that  moment,  as  he  was  in  some 
want  of  money.  But  the  King  was  a  very  good 
critic,  whatever  he  may  have  been  as  King,  and 
he  had,  to  a  considerable  extent,  hit  the  right 
nail  on  the  head.  "Hymns  on  the  Hill"  was  not 
at  all  like  the  poems  originally  published  in 

praise  of  the  poetry  of  London.    And  the  reason 

129 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 


was  that  it  was  really  written  by  a  man  who 
had  seen  nothing  else  but  London,  and  who 
regarded  it,  therefore,  as  the  universe.  It  was 
written  by  a  raw,  red-headed  lad  of  sev- 
enteen, named  Adam  Wayne,  who  had  been 
born  in  Notting  Hill.  An  accident  in  his 
seventh  year  prevented  his  being  taken  away  to 
the  seaside,  and  thus  his  whole  life  had  been 
passed  in  his  own  Pump  Street,  and  in  its  neigh- 
bourhood. And  the  consequence  was,  that  he 
saw  the  street-lamps  as  things  quite  as  eternal  as 
the  stars;  the  two  fires  were  mingled.  He  saw 
the  houses  as  things  enduring,  like  the  moun- 
tains, and  so  he  wrote  about  them  as  one  would 
write  about  mountains.  Nature  puts  on  a  dis- 
guise when  she  speaks  to  every  man;  to 
this  man  she  put  on  the  disguise  of  Notting 
Hill.  Nature  would  mean  to  a  poet  born 
in  the  Cumberland  hills,  a  stormy  skyline 
and  sudden  rocks.  Nature  would  mean  to  a 
poet  born  in  the  Essex  flats,  a  waste  of 
splendid  waters  and  splendid  sunsets.  So 
nature  meant  to  this  man  Wayne  a  line  of 
violet  roofs  and  lemon  lamps,  the  chiaroscuro  of 
the  town.  He  did  not  think  it  clever  or 
funny  to  praise  the  shadows  and  colours  of  the 
town;  he  had  seen  no  other  shadows  or  colours, 
and  so  he  praised  them — because  they  were 

130 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

shadows  and  colours.  He  saw  all  this  because 
he  was  a  poet,  though  in  practice  a  bad  poet. 
It  is  too  often  forgotten  that  just  as  a  bad  man 
is  nevertheless  a  man,  so  a  bad  poet  is  neverthe- 
less a  poet. 

Mr.  Wayne's  little  volume  of  verse  was  a  com- 
plete failure;  and  he  submitted  to  the  decision 
of  fate  with  a  quite  rational  humility,  went  back 
to  his  work,  which  was  that  of  a  draper's 
assistant,  and  wrote  no  more.  He  still  retained 
his  feeling  about  the  town  of  Netting  Hill, 
because  he  could  not  possibly  have  any  other 
feeling,  because  it  was  the  back  and  base  of 
his  brain.  But  he  does  not  seem  to  have  made 
any  particular  attempt  to  express  it  or  insist 
upon  it. 

He  was  a  genuine  natural  mystic,  one  of 
those  who  live  on  the  border  of  fairyland.  But 
he  was  perhaps  the  first  to  realise  how  often 
the  boundary  of  fairyland  runs  through  a 
crowded  city.  Twenty  feet  from  him  (for  he 
was  very  short-sighted)  the  red  and  white  and 
yellow  suns  of  the  gas-lights  thronged  and 
melted  into  each  other  like  an  orchard  of 
fiery  trees,  the  beginning  of  the  woods  of 
elf-land. 

But,  oddly  enougtt,  it  was  because  he  was  a 
small  poet  that  he  came  to  his  strange  and 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

isolated  triumph.  It  was  because  he  was  a 
failure  in  literature  that  he  became  a  portent  in 
English  history.  He  was  one  of  those  to  whom 
nature  has  given  the  desire  without  the  power 
of  artistic  expression.  He  had  been  a  dumb 
poet  from  his  cradle.  He  might  have  been  so 
to  his  grave,  and  carried  unuttered  into  the  dark- 
ness a  treasure  of  new  and  sensational  song. 
But  he  was  born  under  the  lucky  star  of  a 
single  coincidence.  He  happened  to  be  at  the 
head  of  his  dingy  municipality  at  the  time  of 
the  King's  jest,  at  the  time  when  all  munici- 
palities were  suddenly  commanded  to  break  out 
into  banners  and  flowers.  Out  of  the  long 
procession  of  the  silent  poets  who  have  been 
passing  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  this 
one  man  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  an 
heraldic  vision,  in  which  he  could  act  and  speak 
and  live  lyrically.  While  the  author  and  the 
victims  alike  treated  the  whole  matter  as  a  silly 
public  charade,  this  one  man,  by  taking  it 
seriously,  sprang  suddenly  into  a  throne  of 
artistic  omnipotence.  Armour,  music,  stand- 
ards, watch-fires,  the  noise  of  drums,  all 
the  theatrical  properties  were  thrown  before  him. 
This  one  poor  rhymster,  having  burnt  his  own 
rhymes,  began  to  live  that  life  of  open  air  and 
acted  poetry  of  which  all  the  poets  of  the  earth 

132 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

have  dreamed  in  vain ;  the  life  for  which  the  Iliad 
is  only  a  cheap  substitute. 

Upwards  from  his  abstracted  childhood,  Adam 
Wayne  had  grown  strongly  and  silently  in  a 
certain  quality  or  capacity  which  is  in  modern 
cities  almost  entirely  artificial,  but  which  can  be 
natural,  and  was  primarily  almost  brutally 
natural  in  him,  the  quality  or  capacity  of 
patriotism.  It  exists,  like  other  virtues  and 
vices,  in  a  certain  undiluted  reality.  It  is  not 
confused  with  all  kinds  of  other  things.  A 
child  speaking  of  his  country  or  his  village 
may  make  every  mistake  in  Mandeville  or 
tell  every  lie  in  Munchausen,  but  in  his  state- 
ment there  will  be  no  psychological  lies  any 
more  than  there  can  be  in  a  good  song.  Adam 
Wayne,  as  a  boy,  had  for  his  dull  streets  in 
Notting  Hill  the  ultimate  and  ancient  senti- 
ment that  went  out  to  Athens  or  Jerusalem.  He 
knew  the  secret  of  the  passion,  those  secrets 
which  make  real  old  national  songs  sound  so 
strange  to  our  civilisation.  He  knew  that  real 
patriotism  tends  to  sing  about  sorrows  and 
forlorn  hopes  much  more  than  about  victory. 
He  knew  that  in  proper  names  themselves  is 
half  the  poetry  of  all  national  poems.  Above 
all,  he  knew  the  supreme  psychological  fact 
about  patriotism,  as  certain  in  connection  with 

133 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

it  as  that  a  fine  shame  comes  to  all  lovers,  the 
fact  that  the  patriot  never  under  any  circum- 
stances boasts  of  the  largeness  of  his  country, 
but  always,  and  of  necessity,  boasts  of  the 
smallness  of  it. 

All  this  he  knew,  not  because  he  was  a 
philosopher  or  a  genius,  but  because  he  was  a 
child.  Any  one  who  cares  to  walk  up  a  side 
slum  like  Pump  Street,  can  see  a  little  Adam 
claiming  to  be  king  of  a  paving-stone.  And 
he  will  always  be  proudest  if  the  stone  is 
almost  too  narrow  for  him  to  keep  his  feet 
inside  it. 

It  was  while  he  was  in  such  a  dream  of 
defensive  battle,  marking  out  some  strip  of 
street  or  fortress  of  steps  as  the  limit  of  his 
haughty  claim,  that  the  King  had  met  him,  and, 
with  a  few  words  flung  in  mockery,  ratified 
for  ever  the  strange  boundaries  of  his  soul. 
Thenceforward  the  fanciful  idea  of  the  defence 
of  Notting  Hill  in  war  became  to  him  a  thing  as 
solid  as  eating  or  drinking  or  lighting  a  pipe. 
He  disposed  his  meals  for  it,  altered  his  plans 
for  it,  lay  awake  in  the  night  and  went  over  it 
again.  Two  or  three  shops  were  to  him  an 
arsenal;  an  area  was  to  him  a  moat;  corners  of 
balconies  and  turns  of  stone  steps  were  points 
for  the  location  of  a  culverin  or  an  archer.  It  is 

134 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

almost  impossible  to  convey  to  any  ordinary 
imagination  the  degree  to  which  he  had  trans- 
mitted the  leaden  London  landscape  to  a 
romantic  gold.  The  process  began  almost  in 
babyhood,  and  became  habitual  like  a  literal 
madness.  It  was  felt  most  keenly  at  night, 
when  London  is  really  herself,  when  her  lights 
shine  in  the  dark  like  the  eyes  of  innumerable 
cats,  and  the  outline  of  the  dark  houses  has  the 
bold  simplicity  of  blue  hills.  But  for  him  the 
night  revealed  instead  of  concealing,  and  he 
read  all  the  blank  hours  of  morning  and  after- 
noon, by  a  contradictory  phrase,  in  the  light 
of  that  darkness.  To  this  man,  at  any  rate,  the 
inconceivable  had  happened.  The  artificial  city 
had  become  to  him  nature,  and  he  felt  the  curb- 
stones and  gas-lamps  as  things  as  ancient  as  the 
sky. 

One  instance  may  suffice.  Walking  along 
Pump  Street  with  a  friend,  he  said,  as  he 
gazed  dreamily  at  the  iron  fence  of  a  little 
front  garden,  "How  those  railings  stir  one's 
blood." 

His  friend,  who  was  also  a  great  intellectual 
admirer,  looked  at  them  painfully,  but  without 
any  particular  emotion.  He  was  so  troubled 
about  it  that  he  went  back  quite  a  large 
number  of  times  on  quiet  evenings  and  stared 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

at  the  railings,  waiting  for  something  to  happen 
to  his  blood,  but  without  success.  At  last  he 
took  refuge  in  asking  Wayne  himself.  He 
discovered  that  the  ecstacy  lay  in  the  one 
point  he  had  never  noticed  about  the  railings 
even  after  his  six  visits,  the  fact  that  they 
were  like  the  great  majority  of  others  in 
London,  shaped  at  the  top  after  the  manner 
of  a  spear.  As  a  child,  Wayne  had  half 
unconsciously  compared  them  with  the  spears  in 
pictures  of  Lancelot  and  St.  George,  and 
had  grown  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  graphic 
association.  Now,  whenever  he  looked  at 
them,  they  were  simply  the  serried  weapons 
that  made  a  hedge  of  steel  round  the  sacred 
homes  of  Notting  Hill.  He  could  not  have 
cleansed  his  mind  of  that  meaning  even  if  he 
tried.  It  was  not  a  fanciful  comparison,  or 
anything  like  it.  It  would  not  have  been  true 
to  say  that  the  familiar  railings  reminded  him  of 
spears;  it  would  have  been  far  truer  to  say  that 
the  familiar  spears  occasionally  reminded  him  of 
railings. 

A  couple  of  days  after  his  interview  with  the 
King,  Adam  Wayne  was  pacing  like  a  caged 
lion  in  front  of  five  shops  that  occupied  the 
upper  end  of  the  disputed  street.  They  were  a 
grocer's,  a  chemist's,  a  barber's,  an  old  curiosity 

136 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

shop,  and  a  toy-shop  that  sold  also  newspapers. 
It  was  these  five  shops  which  his  childish 
fastidiousness  had  first  selected  as  the  essentials 
of  the  Netting  Hill  campaign,  the  citadel  of  the 
city.  If  Notting  Hill  was  the  heart  of  the 
universe,  and  Pump  Street  was  the  heart  of 
Notting  Hill,  this  was  the  heart  of  Pump 
Street.  The  fact  that  they  were  all  small 
and  side  by  side  realised  that  feeling  for  a 
formidable  comfort  and  compactness  which,  as 
we  have  said,  was  the  heart  of  his  patriotism 
and  of  all  patriotism.  The  grocer  (who  had  a 
wine  and  spirit  license)  was  included  because  he 
could  provision  the  garrison;  the  old  curiosity 
shop  because  it  contained  enough  swords,  pis- 
tols, partisans,  cross-bows,  and  blunderbusses 
to  arm  a  whole  irregular  regiment;  the  toy  and 
paper  shop  because  Wayne  thought  a  free  press 
an  essential  centre  for  the  soul  of  Pump  Street; 
the  chemist's  to  cope  with  outbreaks  of  dis- 
ease among  the  besieged ;  and  the  barber's  because 
it  was  in  the  middle  of  all  the  rest,  and  the 
barber's  son  was  an  intimate  friend  and  spiritual 
affinity. 

It  was  a  cloudless  October  evening  settling 
down  through  purple  into  pure  silver  around  the 
roofs  and  chimneys  of  the  steep  little  street, 
which  looked  black  and  sharp  and  dramatic.  In 

137 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  deep  shadows  the  gas-lit  shop  fronts 
gleamed  like  five  fires  in  a  row,  and  before 
them,  darkly  outlined  like  a  ghost  against 
some  purgatorial  furnaces,  passed  to  and  fro  the 
tall  bird-like  figure  and  eagle  nose  of  Adam 
Wayne. 

He  swung  his  stick  restlessly,  and  seemed  fit- 
fully talking  to  himself. 

"There  are,  after  all,  enigmas,"  he  said,  "even 
to  the  man  who  has  faith.  There  are  doubts 
that  remain  even  after  the  true  philosophy  is 
completed  in  every  rung  and  rivet.  And  here 
is  one  of  them.  Is  the  normal  human  need, 
the  normal  human  condition,  higher  or  lower 
than  those  special  states  of  the  soul  which 
call  out  a  doubtful  and  dangerous  glory? 
those  special  powers  of  knowledge  or  sacrifice 
which  are  made  possible  only  by  the  existence  of 
evil?  Which  should  come  first  to  our  affec- 
tions, the  enduring  sanities  of  peace  or  the 
half-maniacal  virtues  of  battle?  Which  should 
come  first,  the  man  great  in  the  daily  round  or 
the  man  great  in  emergency?  Which  should 
come  first,  to  return  to  the  enigma  before  me, 
the  grocer  or  the  chemist?  Which  is  more 
certainly  the  stay  of  the  city,  the  swift  chival- 
rous chemist  or  the  benignant  all-providing 
grocer?  In  such  ultimate  spiritual  doubts 

138 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

it  is  only  possible  to  choose  a  side  by  the 
higher  instincts  and  to  abide  the  issue.  In 
any  case,  I  have  made  my  choice.  May  I  be 
pardoned  if  I  choose  wrongly,  but  I  choose  the 
grocer." 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  the  grocer,  who 
was  a  middle-aged  man,  partially  bald,  with  harsh 
red  whiskers  and  beard,  and  forehead  lined  with 
all  the  cares  of  the  small  tradesman.  "What  can 
I  do  for  you,  sir?" 

Wayne  removed  his  hat  on  entering  the  shop, 
with  a  ceremonious  gesture,  which,  slight  as 
it  was,  made  the  tradesman  eye  him  with  the 
beginnings  of  wonder. 

"I  come,  sir,"  he  said  soberly,  "to  appeal  to 
your  patriotism." 

"Why,  sir,"  said  the  grocer,  "that  sounds  like 
the  times  when  I  was  a  boy  and  we  used  to  have 
elections." 

"You  will  have  them  again,"  said  Wayne, 
firmly,  "and  far  greater  things.  Listen,  MV. 
Mead.  I  know  the  temptations  which  a  grocer 
has  to  a  too  cosmopolitan  philosophy.  I  can 
imagine  what  it  must  be  to  sit  all  day  as  you  do 
surrounded  with  wares  from  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  from  strange  seas  that  we  have  never 
sailed  and  strange  forests  that  we  could  not 
even  picture.  No  Eastern  king  ever  had  such 

139 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

argosies  or  such  cargoes  coming  from  the  sun- 
rise and  the  sunset,  and  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  not  enriched  like  one  of  you.  India 
is  at  your  elbow,"  he  cried,  lifting  his  voice  and 
pointing  his  stick  at  a  drawer  of  rice,  the  grocer 
making  a  movement  of  some  alarm,  "China  is 
before  you,  Demerara  is  behind  you,  America  is 
above  your  head,  and  at  this  very  moment,  like 
some  old  Spanish  admiral,  you  hold  Tunis  in  your 
hands." 

Mr.  Mead  dropped  the  box  of  dates  which  he 
was  just  lifting,  and  then  picked  it  up  again 
vaguely. 

Wayne  went  on  with  a  heightened  colour,  but  in 
a  lowered  voice, 

"I  know,  I  say,  the  temptations  of  so  inter- 
national, so  universal  a  vision  of  wealth.  I 
know  that  it  must  be  your  danger  not  to  fall 
like  many  tradesmen  into  too  dusty  and  me- 
chanical a  narrowness,  but  rather  to  be  too 
broad,  to  be  too  general,  too  liberal.  If  a 
narrow  nationalism  be  the  danger  of  the  pastry- 
cook, who  makes  his  own  wares  under  his  own 
heavens,  no  less  is  cosmopolitanism  the  danger  of 
the  grocer.  But  I  come  to  you  in  the  name  of 
that  patriotism  which  no  wanderings  or  en- 
lightenments should  ever  wholly  extinguish, 
and  I  ask  you  to  remember  Notting  Hill.  For, 

140 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

after  all,  in  this  cosmopolitan  magnificence,  she 
has  played  no  small  part.  Your  dates  may 
come  from  the  tall  palms  of  Barbary,  your 
sugar  from  the  strange  islands  of  the  tropics, 
your  tea  from  the  secret  villages  of  the  Empire 
of  the  Dragon.  That  this  room  might  be 
furnished,  forests  may  have  been  spoiled  under 
the  Southern  Cross,  and  leviathans  speared 
under  the  Polar  Star.  But  you  yourself — 
surely  no  inconsiderable  treasure — you  yourself, 
the  brain  that  wields  these  vast  interests — you 
yourself,  at  least,  have  grown  to  strength  and 
wisdom  between  these  grey  houses  and  under 
this  rainy  sky.  This  city  which  made  you,  and 
thus  made  your  fortunes,  is  threatened  with  war. 
Come  forth  and  tell  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  this 
lesson.  Oil  is  from  the  North  and  fruits  from 
the  South;  rices  are  from  India  and  spices  from 
Ceylon;  sheep  are  from  New  Zealand  and  men 
from  Netting  Hill." 

The  grocer  sat  for  some  little  while,  with  dim 
eyes  and  his  mouth  open,  looking  rather  like  a 
fish.  Then  he  scratched  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
said  nothing.  Then  he  said — 

"Anything  out  of  the  shop,  sir?" 

Wayne  looked  round  in  a  dazed  way.  Seeing 
a  pile  of  tins  of  pine-apple  chunks,  he  waved  his 
stick  generally  towards  them. 

141 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'll  take  those." 

"All  those,  sir?"  said  the  grocer,  with  greatly 
increased  interest. 

"Yes,  yes;  all  those,"  replied  Wayne,  still  a 
little  bewildered,  like  a  man  splashed  with  cold 
water. 

"Very  good,  sir;  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the 
grocer  with  animation.  "You  may  count  upon 
my  patriotism,  sir." 

"I  count  upon  it  already,"  said  Wayne,  and 
passed  out  into  the  gathering  night. 

The  grocer  put  the  box  of  dates  back  in  its 
place. 

"What  a  nice  fellow  he  is,"  he  said.  "It's  odd 
how  often  they  are  nice.  Much  nicer  than  those 
as  are  all  right." 

Meanwhile  Adam  Wayne  stood  outside  the 
glowing  chemist's  shop,  unmistakably  waver- 
ing. 

"What  a  weakness  it  is,"  he  muttered. 
"I  have  never  got  rid  of  it  from  childhood. 
The  fear  of  this  magic  shop.  The  grocer  is  rich, 
he  is  romantic,  he  is  poetical  in  the  truest  sense, 
but  he  is  not — no,  he  is  not  supernatural. 
But  the  chemist!  All  the  other  shops  stand  in 
Notting  Hill,  but  this  stands  in  Elf-land.  Look 
at  those  great  burning  bowls  of  colour.  It 
must  be  from  them  that  God  paints  the  sunsets. 

142 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

It  is  superhuman,  and  the  superhuman  is  all  the 
more  uncanny  when  it  is  beneficent.  That  is  the 
root  of  the  fear  of  God.  I  am  afraid.  But  I  must 
be  a  man  and  enter." 

He  was  a  man,  and  entered.  A  short,  dark 
young  man  was  behind  the  counter  with  spec- 
tacles, and  greeted  him  with  a  bright  but  entirely 
business-like  smile. 

"A  fine  evening,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Fine,  indeed,  strange  Father,"  said  Adam, 
stretching  his  hands  somewhat  forward.  "It  is 
on  such  clear  and  mellow  nights  that  your  shop 
is  most  itself.  Then  they  appear  most  perfect, 
those  moons  of  green  and  gold  and  crimson, 
which  from  afar,  oft  guide  the  pilgrim  of  pain 
and  sickness  to  this  house  of  merciful  witch- 
craft." 

"Can  I  get  you  anything?"  asked  the 
chemist. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Wayne,  in  a  friendly 
but  vague  manner.  "Let  me  have  some  Sal 
Volatile." 

"Eightpence,  tenpence,  or  one  and  sixpence 
a  bottle?"  said  the  young  man  genially. 

"One  and  six — one  and  six,"  replied  Wayne, 
with  a  wild  submissiveness.  "I  come  to  ask  you, 
Mr.  Bowles,  a  terrible  question." 

He  paused  and  collected  himself. 
143 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"It  is  necessary,"  he  muttered — "it  is  neces- 
sary to  be  tactful,  and  to  suit  the  appeal  to  each 
profession  in  turn. 

"I  come,"  he  resumed  aloud,  "to  ask  you  a 
question  which  goes  to  the  roots  of  your  miracu- 
lous toils.  Mr.  Bowles,  shall  all  this  witchery 
cease?"  And  he  waved  his  stick  around  the 
shop. 

Meeting  with  no  answer,  he  continued  with 
animation — 

"In  Notting  Hill  we  have  felt  to  its  core  the 
elfish  mystery  of  your  profession.  And  now  Not- 
ting Hill  itself  is  threatened." 

"Anything  more,  sir?"  asked  the  chemist. 

"Oh,"  said  Wayne,  somewhat  disturbed — 
"oh,  what  is  it  chemists  sell?  Quinine,  I 
think.  Thank  you.  Shall  it  be  destroyed?  I 
have  met  these  men  of  Bayswater  and  North 
Kensington — Mr.  Bowles,  they  are  materialists. 
They  see  no  witchery  in  your  work,  even 
when  it  is  brought  within  their  own  borders.  They 
think  the  chemist  is  commonplace.  They  think 
him  human." 

The  chemist  appeared  to  pause,  only  a  mo- 
ment, to  take  in  the  insult,  and  immediately 
said — 

"And  the  next  article,  please?" 

"Alum,"     said     the     Provost,     wildly.      "I 

144 


Mental  Condition  of  Adam  Wayne 

resume.  It  is  in  this  sacred  town  alone  that 
your  priesthood  is  reverenced.  Therefore,  when 
you  fight  for  us  you  fight  not  only  for  yourself, 
but  for  everything  you  typify.  You  fight  not 
only  for  Notting  Hill,  but  for  Fairyland,  for  as 
surely  as  Buck  and  Barker  and  such  men  hold 
sway,  the  sense  of  Fairyland  in  some  strange  man- 
ner diminishes." 

"Anything  more,  sir  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bowles,  with 
unbroken  cheerfulness. 

"Oh  yes,  jujubes — Gregory  powder — mag- 
nesia. The  danger  is  imminent.  In  all  this 
matter  I  have  felt  that  I  fought  not  merely 
for  my  own  city  (though  to  that  I  owe  all 
my  blood),  but  for  all  places  in  which  these 
great  ideas  could  prevail.  I  am  fighting  not 
merely  for  Notting  Hill,  but  for  Bayswater 
itself;  for  North  Kensington  itself.  For  if 
the  gold-hunters  prevail,  these  also  will  lose 
all  their  ancient  sentiments  and  all  the  mystery 
of  their  national  soul.  I  know  I  can  count  upon 
you/' 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  the  chemist,  with  great 
animation,  "we  are  always  glad  to  oblige  a  good 
customer." 

Adam  Wayne  went  out  of  the  shop  with  a  deep 
sense  of  fulfilment  of  soul. 

"It  is  so  fortunate,"  he  said,  "to  have 
145 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

tact,  to  be  able  to  play  upon  the  peculiar 
talents  and  specialities,  the  cosmopolitanism  of 
the  grocer  and  the  world-old  necromancy 
of  the  chemist.  Where  should  I  be  without 
tact?" 


146 


CHAPTER    II — The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turn- 
bull 

AFTER  two  more  interviews  with  shop- 
men, however,  the  patriot's  confi- 
dence in  his  own  psychological 
diplomacy  began  vaguely  to  wane.  Despite 
the  care  with  which  he  considered  the  peculiar 
rationale  and  the  peculiar  glory  of  each  sepa- 
rate shop,  there  seemed  to  be  something  unre- 
sponsive about  the  shopmen.  Whether  it  was 
a  dark  resentment  against  the  uninitiate  for 
peeping  into  their  masonic  magnificence,  he  could 
not  quite  conjecture. 

His  conversation  with  the  man  who  kept 
the  shop  of  curiosities  had  begun  encourag- 
ingly. The  man  who  kept  the  shop  of  curiosi- 
ties had  indeed  enchanted  him  with  a  phrase. 
He  was  standing  drearily  at  the  door  of  his 
shop,  a  wrinkled  man  with  a  grey  pointed 
beard,  evidently  a  gentleman  who  had  come  down 
in  the  world. 

"And  how  does  your  commerce  go,  you 
strange  guardian  of  the  past?"  said  Wayne, 
affably. 

"Well,  sir,  not  very  well,"  replied  the  man, 
with  that  patient  voice  of  his  class  which  is  one 

147 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

of  the  most  heart-breaking  things  in  the  world. 
"Things  are  terribly  quiet." 

Wayne's  eyes  shone  suddenly. 

"A  great  saying,"  he  said,  "worthy  of  a  man 
whose  merchandise  is  human  history.  Terribly 
quiet;  that  is  in  two  words  the  spirit  of  this 
age,  as  I  have  felt  it  from  my  cradle.  I  some- 
times wondered  how  many  other  people  felt  the 
oppression  of  this  union  between  quietude  and 
terror.  I  see  blank  well-ordered  streets  and 
men  in  black  moving  about  inoffensively, 
sullenly.  It  goes  on  day  after  day,  day  after 
day,  and  nothing  happens;  but  to  me  it  is  like 
a  dream  from  wrhich  I  might  wake  screaming. 
To  me  the  straightness  of  our  life  is  the 
straightness  of  a  thin  cord  stretched  tight.  Its 
stillness  is  terrible.  It  might  snap  with  a  noise 
like  thunder.  And  you  who  sit,  amid  the  debris 
of  the  great  wars,  you  who  sit,  as  it  were, 
upon  a  battlefield,  you  know  that  war  was  less 
terrible  than  this  evil  peace;  you  know  that 
the  idle  lads  who  carried  those  swords  under 
Francis  or  Elizabeth,  the  rude  Squire  or 
Baron  who  swung  that  mace  about  in  Picardy 
or  Northumberland  battles,  may  have  been 
terribly  noisy,  but  wrere  not  like  us,  terribly 
quiet." 

Whether  it  was  a  faint  embarrassment  of  con- 
148 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turribull 

science  as  to  the  original  source  and  date  of  the 
weapons  referred  to,  or  merely  an  engrained 
depression,  the  guardian  of  the  past  looked,  if 
anything,  a  little  more  worried. 

"But  I  do  not  think,"  continued  Wayne, 
"that  this  horrible  silence  of  modernity  will 
last,  though  I  think  for  the  present  it  will 
increase.  What  a  farce  is  this  modern  liberality. 
Freedom  of  speech  means  practically  in  our 
modern  civilisation  that  we  must  only  talk 
about  unimportant  things.  We  must  not  talk 
about  religion,  for  that  is  illiberal;  we  must  not 
talk  about  bread  and  cheese,  for  that  is  talking 
shop;  we  must  not  talk  about  death,  for  that  is 
depressing;  we  must  not  talk  about  birth,  for 
that  is  indelicate.  It  cannot  last.  Something 
must  break  this  strange  indifference,  this 
strange  dreamy  egoism,  this  strange  loneli- 
ness of  millions  in  a  crowd.  Something 
must  break  it.  Why  should  it  not  be  you  and 
I?  Can  you  do  nothing  else  but  guard 
relics?" 

The  shopman  wore  a  gradually  clearing  expres- 
sion, which  would  have  led  those  unsympathetic 
with  the  cause  of  the  Red  Lion  to  think  that  the 
last  sentence  was  the  only  one  to  which  he  had 
attached  any  meaning. 

"I  am  rather  old  to  go  into  a  new  business," 
149 


The  Napoleon  of  Hotting  Hill 

he  said,  "and  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  be 
either." 

"Why  not,"  said  Wayne,  gently  having  reached 
the  crisis  of  his  delicate  persuasion — "why  not  be 
a  Colonel?" 

It  was  at  this  point,  in  all  probability,  that  the 
interview  began  to  yield  more  disappointing 
results.  The  man  appeared  inclined  at  first  to 
regard  the  suggestion  of  becoming  a  Colonel 
as  outside  the  sphere  of  immediate  and  relevant 
discussion.  A  long  exposition  of  the  inevit- 
able war  of  independence,  coupled  with  the 
purchase  of  a  doubtful  sixteenth-century  sword 
for  an  exaggerated  price,  seemed  to  resettle 
matters.  Wayne  left  the  shop,  however,  some- 
what infected  with  the  melancholy  of  its 
owner. 

That  melancholy  was  completed  at  the 
barber's. 

"Shaving,  sir?"  inquired  that  artist  from  inside 
his  shop. 

"War!"  replied  Wayne,  standing  on  the 
threshold. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  other,  sharply. 

"War!"  said  Wayne,  warmly.  "But  not  for 
anything  inconsistent  with  the  beautiful  and 
the  civilised  arts.  War  for  beauty.  War  for 
society.  War  for  peace.  A  great  chance  is 

150 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turribull 

offered  you  of  repelling  that  slander  which, 
in  defiance  of  the  lives  of  so  many  artists, 
attributes  poltroonery  to  those  who  beautify 
and  polish  the  surface  of  our  lives.  Why  should 
not  hairdressers  be  heroes?  Why  should 
not—" 

"Now,  you  get  out,"  said  the  barber,  irascibly. 
"We  don't  want  any  of  your  sort  here.  You  get 
out." 

And  he  came  forward  with  the  desperate 
annoyance  of  a  mild  person  when  enraged. 

Adam  Wayne  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment  on 
the  sword,  then  dropped  it. 

"Notting  Hill,"  he  said,  "will  need  her 
bolder  sons ;"  and  he  turned  gloomily  to  the 
toy-shop. 

It  was  one  of  those  queer  little  shops  so 
constantly  seen  in  the  side  streets  of  London, 
which  must  be  called  toy-shops  only  because  toys 
upon  the  whole  predominate;  for  the  re- 
mainder of  goods  seem  to  consist  of  almost 
everything  else  in  the  world — tobacco,  exercise- 
books,  sweet-stuff,  novelettes,  halfpenny  paper 
clips,  halfpenny  pencil  sharpeners,  bootlaces,  and 
cheap  fireworks.  It  also  sold  newspapers,  and 
a  row  of  dirty-looking  posters  hung  along  the 
front  of  it. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Wayne,  as  he  entered, 
151 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"that  I  am  not  getting  on  with  these  tradesmen 
as  I  should.  Is  it  that  I  have  neglected  to  rise 
to  the  full  meaning  of  their  work  ?  Is  there  some 
secret  buried  in  each  of  these  shops  which  no  mere 
poet  can  discover  ?" 

He  stepped  to  the  counter  with  a  depression 
which  he  rapidly  conquered  as  he  addressed  the 
man  on  the  other  side  of  it, — a  man  of  short 
stature,  and  hair  prematurely  white,  and  the  look 
of  a  large  baby. 

"Sir,"  said  Wayne,  "I  am  going  from  house 
to  house  in  this  street  of  ours,  seeking  to  stir 
up  some  sense  of  the  danger  which  now  threatens 
our  city.  Nowhere  have  I  felt  my  duty  so  diffi- 
cult as  here.  For  the  toy-shop  keeper  has 
to  do  with  all  that  remains  to  us  of  Eden  before 
the  first  wars  began.  You  sit  here  meditating 
continually  upon  the  wants  of  that  wonderful 
time  when  every  staircase  leads  to  the  stars,  and 
every  garden-path  to  the  other  end  of  nowhere. 
Is  it  thoughtlessly,  do  you  think,  that  I  strike 
the  dark  old  drum  of  peril  in  the  paradise  of 
children?  But  consider  a  moment;  do  not 
condemn  me  hastily.  Even  that  paradise  itself 
contains  the  rumour  or  beginning  of  that  danger, 
just  as  the  Eden  that  was  made  for  perfection 
contained  the  terrible  tree.  For  judge  childhood, 
even  by  your  own  arsenal  of  its  pleasures.  You 

152 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turnbull 

keep  bricks;  you  make  yourself  thus,  doubt- 
less, the  witness  of  the  constructive  instinct 
older  than  the  destructive.  You  keep  dolls; 
you  make  yourself  the  priest  of  that  divine 
idolatry.  You  keep  Noah's  Arks;  you  per- 
petuate the  memory  of  the  salvation  of  all  life  as 
a  precious,  an  irreplaceable  thing.  But  do  you 
keep  only,  sir,  the  symbols  of  this  prehistoric 
sanity,  this  childish  rationality  of  the  earth  ?  Do 
you  not  keep  more  terrible  things?  What  are 
those  boxes,  seemingly  of  lead  soldiers,  that 
I  see  in  that  glass  case?  Are  they  not  wit- 
nesses to  that  terror  and  beauty,  that 
desire  for  a  lovely  death,  which  could  not 
be  excluded  even  from  the  immortality  of 
Eden?  Do  not  despise  the  lead  soldiers,  Mr. 
Turnbull." 

"I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull,  of  the  toy-shop, 
shortly,  but  with  great  emphasis. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  Wayne.  "I 
confess  that  I  feared  for  my  military  schemes 
the  awful  innocence  of  your  profession.  How 
I  thought  to  myself,  will  this  man,  used  only  to 
the  wooden  swords  that  give  pleasure,  think 
of  the  steel  swords  that  give  pain?  But  I  am 
at  least  partly  reassured.  Your  tone  suggests 
to  me  that  I  have  at  least  the  entry  of  a  gate  of 
your  fairyland — the  gate  through  which  the 

153 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

soldiers  enter,  for  it  cannot  be  denied — I  ought, 
sir,  no  longer  to  deny,  that  it  is  of  soldiers  that 
I  come  to  speak.  Let  your  gentle  employment 
make  you  merciful  towards  the  troubles  of  the 
world.  Let  your  own  silvery  experience  tone 
down  our  sanguine  sorrows.  For  there  is  war  in 
Notting  Hill." 

The  little  toy-shop  keeper  sprang  up  suddenly, 
slapping  his  fat  hands  like  two  fans  on  the 
counter. 

"War?"  he  cried.  "Not  really,  sir?  Is 
it  true?  Oh,  what  a  joke!  Oh,  what  a  sight  for 
sore  eyes !" 

Wayne  was  almost  taken  aback  by  this  out- 
burst. 

"I  am  delighted,"  he  stammered.  "I  had  no 
notion — " 

He  sprang  out  of  the  way  just  in  time  to  avoid 
Mr.  Turnbull,  who  took  a  flying  leap  over 
the  counter  and  dashed  to  the  front  of  the 
shop. 

"You  look  here,  sir,"  he  said;  "you  just  look 
here." 

He  came  back  with  two  of  the  torn  posters 
in  his  hand  which  were  flapping  outside  his 
shop. 

"Look  at  those,  sir,"  he  said,  and  flung  them 
down  on  the  counter. 

154 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turribull 

Wayne  bent  over  them,  and  read  on  one — 

"LAST  FIGHTING. 

REDUCTION  OF  THE  CENTRAL  DERVISH  CITY. 
REMARKABLE,  ETC/' 

On  the  other  he  read — 

"LAST  SMALL  REPUBLIC  ANNEXED. 

NICARAGUAN    CAPITAL    SURRENDERS    AFTER    A 

MONTH'S  FIGHTING. 

GREAT  SLAUGHTER/' 

Wayne  bent  over  them  again,  evidently 
puzzled;  then  he  looked  at  the  dates.  They 
were  both  dated  in  August  fifteen  years  before. 

"Why  do  you  keep  these  old  things?"  he  said, 
startled  entirely  out  of  his  absurd  tact  of  mysti- 
cism. "Why  do  you  hang  them  outside  your 
shop?" 

"Because,"  said  the  other,  simply,  "they  are 
the  records  of  the  last  war.  You  men- 
tioned war  just  now.  It  happens  to  be  my 
hobby." 

Wayne  lifted  his  large  blue  eyes  with  an  infan- 
tile wonder. 

"Come  witH  me,"  said  Turnbull,  shortly, 
and  led  him  into  a  parlour  at  the  back  of  the 
shop. 

155 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

In  the  centre  of  the  parlour  stood  a  large 
deal  table.  On  it  were  set  rows  and  rows  of 
the  tin  and  lead  soldiers  which  were  part  of  the 
shopkeeper's  stock.  The  visitor  would  have 
thought  nothing  of  it  if  it  had  not  been  for 
a  certain  odd  grouping  of  them,  which  did  not 
seem  either  entirely  commercial  or  entirely 
haphazard. 

"You  are  acquainted,  no  doubt/'  said  Turn- 
bull,  turning  his  big  eyes  upon  Wayne — "you 
are  acquainted,  no  doubt,  with  the  arrangement 
of  the  American  and  Nicaraguan  troops  in  the 
last  battle."  And  he  waved  his  hand  towards 
the  table. 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  said  Wayne.    "I—" 

"Ah,  you  were  at  that  time  occupied  too  much, 
perhaps,  with  the  Dervish  affair.  You  will 
find  it  in  this  corner."  And  he  pointed  to 
a  part  of  the  floor  where  there  was  another 
arrangement  of  children's  soldiers  grouped  here 
and  there. 

"You  seem,"  said  Wayne,  "to  be  interested  in 
military  matters." 

"I  am  interested  in  nothing  else,"  answered  the 
toy-shop  keeper,  simply. 

Wayne  appeared  convulsed  with  a  singular, 
suppressed  excitement. 

"In  that  case,"  he  said,  "I  may  approach  you 
156 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turnbull 

with  an  unusual  degree  of  confidence.  Touch- 
ing the  matter  of  the  defence  of  Notting  Hill, 
j " 

"Defence  of  Notting  Hill?  Yes,  sir.  This 
way,  sir,"  said  Turnbull,  with  great  perturba- 
tion. "Just  step  into  this  side  room;"  and  he 
led  Wayne  into  another  apartment,  in  which  the 
table  was  entirely  covered  with  an  arrange- 
ment of  children's  bricks.  A  second  glance  at 
it  told  Wayne  that  the  bricks  were  arranged  in 
the  form  of  a  precise  and  perfect  plan  of  Notting 
Hill.  "Sir,"  said  Turnbull,  impressively,  "you 
have,  by  a  kind  of  accident,  hit  upon  the  whole 
secret  of  my  life.  As  a  boy,  I  grew  up  among 
the  last  wars  of  the  world,  when  Nicaragua  was 
taken  and  the  dervishes  wiped  out.  And  I 
adopted  it  as  a  hobby,  sir,  as  you  might  adopt 
astronomy  or  bird-stuffing.  I  had  no  ill-will 
to  any  one,  but  I  was  interested  in  war  as  a 
science,  as  a  game.  And  suddenly  I  was  bowled 
out.  The  big  Powers  of  the  world,  having 
swallowed  up  all  the  small  ones,  came  to  that 
confounded  agreement,  and  there  was  no  more 
war.  There  was  nothing  more  for  me  to  do  but 
to  do  what  I  do  now — to  read  the  old  cam- 
paigns in  dirty  old  newspapers,  and  to  work  them 
out  with  tin  soldiers.  One  other  thing  had 
occurred  to  me.  I  thought  it  an  amusing  fancy 

157 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

to  make  a  plan  of  how  this  district  of  ours  ought 
to  be  defended  if  it  were  ever  attacked.  It  seems 
to  interest  you  too." 

"If  it  were  ever  attacked,"  repeated  Wayne, 
awed  into  an  almost  mechanical  enunciation. 
"Mr.  Turnbull,  it  is  attacked.  Thank  Heaven, 
I  am  bringing  to  at  least  one  human  being  the 
news  that  is  at  bottom  the  only  good  news  to 
any  son  of  Adam.  Your  life  has  not  been 
useless.  Your  work  has  not  been  play.  Now, 
when  the  hair  is  already  grey  on  your  head, 
Turnbull,  you  shall  have  your  youth.  God 
has  not  destroyed  it,  He  has  only  deferred  it. 
Let  us  sit  down  here,  and  you  shall  explain  to  me 
this  military  map  of  Notting  Hill.  For  you  and 
I  have  to  defend  Notting  Hill  together." 

Mr.  Turnbull  looked  at  the  other  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  hesitated,  and  then  sat  down 
beside  the  bricks  and  the  stranger.  He  did 
not  rise  again  for  seven  hours,  when  the  dawn 
broke. 

The  headquarters  of  Provost  Adam  Wayne 
and  his  Commander-in-Chief  consisted  of  a  small 
and  somewhat  unsuccessful  milk-shop  at  the 
corner  of  Pump  Street.  The  blank  white 
morning  had  only  just  begun  to  break  over  the 
blank  London  buildings  when  Wayne  and 

158 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turnbull 

Turnbull  were  to  be  found  seated  in  the  cheer- 
less and  unswept  shop.  Wayne  had  something 
feminine  in  his  character;  he  belonged  to  that 
class  of  persons  who  forget  their  meals  when 
anything  interesting  is  in  hand.  He  had  had 
nothing  for  sixteen  hours  but  hurried  glasses  of 
milk,  and,  with  a  glass  standing  empty  beside 
him,  he  was  writing  and  sketching  and  dotting 
and  crossing  out  with  inconceivable  rapidity 
with  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper.  Turnbull 
was  of  that  more  masculine  type  in  which  a 
sense  of  responsibility  increases  the  appetite, 
and  with  his  sketch-map  beside  him  he  was 
dealing  strenuously  with  a  pile  of  sandwiches  in 
a  paper  packet,  and  a  tankard  of  ale  from  the 
tavern  opposite,  whose  shutters  had  just  been 
taken  down.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  and  there 
was  no  sound  in  the  living  stillness  except 
the  scratching  of  Wayne's  pencil  and  the  squeal- 
ing of  an  aimless-looking  cat.  At  length  Wayne 
broke  the  silence  by  saying — 

"Seventeen  pounds,  eight  shillings  and  nine- 
pence." 

Turnbull  nodded  and  put  his  head  in  the  tank- 
ard. 

"That,"  said  Wayne,  "is  not  counting  the  five 
pounds  you  took  yesterday.  What  did  you  do 
with  it?" 

159 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

"Ah,  that  is  rather  interesting!"  replied  Turn- 
bull,  with  his  mouth  full.  "I  used  that  five  pounds 
in  a  kindly  and  philanthropic  act." 

Wayne  was  gazing  with  mystification  in  his 
queer  and  innocent  eyes. 

"I  used  that  five  pounds,"  continued  the  other, 
"in  giving  no  less  than  forty  little  London  boys 
rides  in  hansom  cabs." 

"Are  you  insane  ?"  asked  the  Provost. 

"It  is  only  my  light  touch,"  returned  Turn- 
bull.  "These  hansom-cab  rides  will  raise  the 
tone — raise  the  tone,  my  dear  fellow — of  our 
London  youths,  widen  their  horizon,  brace 
their  nervous  system,  make  them  acquainted 
with  the  various  public  monuments  of  our  great 
city.  Education,  Wayne,  education.  How  many 
excellent  thinkers  have  pointed  out  that  political 
reform  is  useless  until  we  produce  a  cultured  pop- 
ulace. So  that  twenty  years  hence,  when  these 
boys  are  grown  up — " 

"Mad!"  said  Wayne,  laying  down  his  pencil; 
"and  five  pounds  gone!" 

"You  are  in  error,"  explained  Turnbull.  "You 
grave  creatures  can  never  be  brought  to  under- 
stand how  much  quicker  work  really  goes 
with  the  assistance  of  nonsense  and  good  meals. 
Stripped  of  its  decorative  beauties,  my  statement 
was  strictly  accurate.  Last  night  I  gave  forty 

160 


The  Remarkable  Mr.  Turribull 

half-crowns  to  forty  little  boys,  and  sent  them 
all  over  London  to  take  hansom  cabs.  I  told 
them  in  every  case  to  tell  the  cabman  to 
bring  them  to  this  spot.  In  half  an  hour  from 
now  the  declaration  of  war  will  be  posted  up.  At 
the  same  time  the  cabs  will  have  begun  to 
come  in,  you  will  have  ordered  out  the  guard, 
the  little  boys  will  drive  up  in  state,  we  shall 
commandeer  the  horses  for  cavalry,  use  the 
cabs  for  barricade,  and  give  the  men  the  choice 
between  serving  in  our  ranks  and  detention  in 
our  basements  and  cellars.  The  little  boys  we 
can  use  as  scouts.  The  main  thing  is  that  we 
start  the  war  with  an  advantage  unknown  in  all 
the  other  armies — horses.  And  now,"  he  said, 
finishing  his  beer,  "I  will  go  and  drill  the 
troops." 

And  he  walked  out  of  the  milk-shop,  leaving 
the  Provost  staring. 

A  minute  or  two  afterwards,  the  Provost 
laughed.  He  only  laughed  once  or  twice  in 
his  life,  and  then  he  did  it  in  a  queer  way  as  if 
it  were  an  art  he  had  not  mastered.  Even  he 
saw  something  funny  in  the  preposterous  coup  of 
the  half-crowns  and  the  little  boys.  He  did  not 
see  the  monstrous  absurdity  of  the  whole 
policy  and  the  whole  war.  He  enjoyed  it 
seriously  as  a  crusade,  that  is,  he  enjoyed  it 

161 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

far  more  than  any  joke  can  be  enjoyed.  Turn- 
bull  enjoyed  it  partly  as  a  joke,  even  more 
perhaps  as  a  reversion  from  the  things  he  hated 
— modernity  and  monotony  and  civilisation.  To 
break  up  the  vast  machinery  of  modern  life  and 
use  the  fragments  as  engines  of  war,  to  make  the 
barricade  of  omnibuses  and  points  of  vantage  of 
chimney-pots,  was  to  him  a  game  worth  infinite 
risk  and  trouble.  He  had  that  rational  and  delib- 
erate preference  which  will  always  to  the  end 
trouble  the  peace  of  the  world,  the  rational  and 
deliberate  preference  for  a  short  life  and  a  merry 
one. 


162 


CHAPTER    III — The   Experiment   of   Mr. 
Buck 

AN  earnest  and  eloquent  petition  was 
sent  up  to  the  King  signed  with 
the  names  of  Wilson,  Barker,  Buck, 
Swindon  and  others.  It  urged  that  at  the 
forthcoming  conference  to  be  held  in  his 
Majesty's  presence  touching  the  final  disposi- 
tion of  the  property  in  Pump  Street,  it 
might  be  held  not  inconsistent  with  political 
decorum  and  with  the  unutterable  respect  they 
entertained  for  his  Majesty  if  they  appeared  in 
ordinary  morning  dress,  without  the  costume 
decreed  for  them  as  Provosts.  So  it  happened 
that  the  company  appeared  at  that  council  in 
frock  coats  and  that  the  King  himself  limited  his 
love  of  ceremony  to  appearing  (after  his  not 
unusual  manner),  in  evening  dress  with  one 
order; — in  this  case  not  the  Garter,  but  the  button 
of  the  Club  of  Old  Clipper's  Best  Pals,  a 
decoration  obtained  (with  difficulty)  from  a 
half-penny  boy's  paper.  Thus  also  it  happened 
that  the  only  spot  of  colour  in  the  room 
was  Adam  Wayne,  who  entered  in  great 
dignity  with  the  great  red  robes  and  the  great 
sword. 

163 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"We  have  met,"  said  Auberon,  "to  decide  the 
most  arduous  of  modern  problems.  May  we  be 
successful."  And  he  sat  down  gravely. 

Buck  turned  his  chair  a  little  and  flung  one 
leg  over  the  other. 

"Your  Majesty,"  he  said,  quite  good-humour- 
edly,  "there  is  only  one  thing  I  can't 
understand,  and  that  is  why  this  affair  is  not 
settled  in  five  minutes.  Here's  a  small  prop- 
erty which  is  worth  a  thousand  to  us  and  is  not 
worth  a  hundred  to  any  one  else.  We  offer 
the  thousand.  It's  not  business-like,  I  know, 
for  we  ought  to  get  it  for  less,  and  it's  not  reason- 
able and  it's  not  fair  on  us,  but  I'm  damned  if  I 
can  see  why  it's  difficult." 

"The  difficulty  may  be  very  simply  stated," 
said  Wayne.  "You  may  offer  a  million  and  it 
will  be  very  difficult  for  you  to  get  Pump 
Street." 

"But,  look  here,  Mr.  Wayne,"  cried  Barker, 
striking  in  with  a  kind  of  cold  excitement. 
"Just  look  here.  You've  no  right  to  take  up  a 
position  like  that.  You've  a  right  to  stand 
out  for  a  bigger  price,  but  you  aren't  doing 
that.  You're  refusing  what  you  and  every  sane 
man  knows  to  be  a  splendid  offer  simply  from 
malice  or  spite — it  must  be  malice  or  spite. 
And  that  kind  of  thing  is  really  criminal;  it's 

164 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

against  the  public  good.  The  King's  Government 
would  be  justified  in  forcing  you." 

With  his  lean  fingers  spread  on  the  table  he 
stared  anxiously  at  Wayne's  face,  which  did  not 
move. 

"In  forcing  you  ...  it  would,"  he  repeated. 

"It  shall,"  said  Buck,  shortly,  turning  to  the 
table  with  a  jerk.  "We  have  done  our  best  to 
be  decent." 

Wayne  lifted  his  large  eyes  slowly. 

"Was  it  my  Lord  Buck,"  he  enquired,  "who 
said  that  the  King  of  England  'shall'  do  some- 
thing?" 

Buck  flushed  and  said  testily — 

"I  mean  it  must — it  ought  to,  as  I  say  we've 
done  our  best  to  be  generous.  I  defy  any  one 
to  deny  it.  As  it  is  Mr.  Wayne,  I  don't  want 
to  say  a  word  that's  uncivil.  I  hope  it's  not 
uncivil  to  say  that  you  can  be,  and  ought  to  be, 
in  gaol.  It  is  criminal  to  stop  public  works  for 
a  whim.  A  man  might  as  well  burn  ten 
thousand  onions  in  his  front  garden  or  bring 
up  his  children  to  run  naked  in  the  street, 
as  do  what  you  say  you  have  a  right  to  do. 
People  have  been  compelled  to  sell  before 
now.  The  King  could  compel  you,  and  I  hope 
he  will." 

"Until  he  does,"  said  Wayne,  calmly,  "the 
165 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

power  and  government  of  this  great  nation  is 
on  my  side  and  not  yours,  and  I  defy  you  to 
defy  it." 

"In  what  sense,"  cried  Barker,  with  his 
feverish  eyes  and  hands,  "is  the  Government  on 
your  side?" 

With  one  ringing  movement  Wayne  unrolled  a 
great  parchment  on  the  table.  It  was  decorated 
down  the  sides  with  wild  water-colour  sketches  of 
vestrymen  in  crowns  and  wreaths. 

"The  Charter  of  the  Cities,"  he  began. 

Buck  exploded  in  a  brutal  oath  and  laughed. 

"That  tomfool's  joke.  Haven't  we  had 
enough — " 

"And  there  you  sit,"  cried  Wayne,  springing 
erect  and  with  a  voice  like  a  trumpet,  "with  no 
argument  but  to  insult  the  King  before  his 
face." 

Buck  rose  also  with  blazing  eyes. 

"I  am  hard  to  bully,"  he  began — and  the  slow 
tones  of  the  King  struck  in  with  incomparable 
gravity — 

"My  Lord  Buck,  I  must  ask  you  to  remem- 
ber that  your  King  is  present.  It  is  not  often 
that  he  needs  to  protect  himself  among  his  sub- 
jects." 

Barker  turned  to  him  with  frantic  gestures. 

"For  God's  sake  don't  back  up  the  madman 
166 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

now,"  he  implored.  "Have  your  joke  another 
time.  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake — " 

"My  Lord  Provost  of  South  Kensington,"  said 
King  Auberon,  steadily.  "I  do  not  follow  your 
remarks  which  are  uttered  with  a  rapidity 
unusual  at  Court.  Nor  do  your  well-meant 
efforts  to  convey  the  rest  with  your  fingers 
materially  assist  me.  I  say  that  my  Lord 
Provost  of  North  Kensington,  to  whom  I  spoke, 
ought  not  in  the  presence  of  his  Sovereign  to 
speak  disrespectfully  of  his  Sovereign's  ordi- 
nances. Do  you  disagree?" 

Barker  turned  restlessly  in  his  chair,  and  Buck 
cursed  without  speaking.  The  King  went  on  in 
a  comfortable  voice — 

"My  Lord  Provost  of  Notting  Hill,  proceed." 

Wayne  turned  his  blue  eyes  on  the  King,  and 
to  every  one's  surprise  there  was  a  look  in  them 
not  of  triumph,  but  of  a  certain  childish  distress. 

"I  am  sorry,  your  Majesty,"  he  said;  "I  fear 
I  was  more  than  equally  to  blame  with  the 
Lord  Provost  of  North  Kensington.  We  were 
debating  somewhat  eagerly,  and  we  both  rose 
to  our  feet.  I  did  so  first,  I  am  ashamed  to  say. 
The  Provost  of  North  Kensington  is,  there- 
fore, comparatively  innocent.  I  beseech  your 
Majesty  to  address  your  rebuke  chiefly,  at 
least,  to  me.  Mr.  Buck  is  not  innocent,  for 

167 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

he  did  no  doubt,  in  the  heat  of  the  moment, 
speak  disrespectfully.  But  the  rest  of  the  dis- 
cussion he  seems  to  me  to  have  conducted  with 
great  good  temper." 

Buck  looked  genuinely  pleased,  for  business 
men  are  all  simple-minded,  and  have  therefore 
that  degree  of  communion  with  fanatics.  The 
King,  for  some  reason,  looked,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  ashamed. 

"This  very  kind  speech  of  the  Provost  of  Not- 
ting Hill,"  began  Buck,  pleasantly,  "seems  to 
me  to  show  that  we  have  at  last  got  on  to  a 
friendly  footing.  Now  come,  Mr.  Wayne. 
Five  hundred  pounds  have  been  offered  to  you 
for  a  property  you  admit  not  to  be  worth  a 
hundred.  Well,  I  am  a  rich  man  and  I  won't 
be  outdone  in  generosity.  Let  us  say  fifteen 
hundred  pounds,  and  have  done  with  it.  And 
let  us  shake  hands."  And  he  rose,  glowing  and 
laughing. 

"Fifteen  hundred  pounds,"  whispered  Mr. 
Wilson  of  Bayswater ;  "can  we  do  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  ?" 

"I'll  stand  the  racket,"  said  Buck  heartily. 
"Mr.  Wayne  is  a  gentleman  and  has  spoken  up 
for  me.  So  I  suppose  the  negotiations  are  at  an 
end." 

Wayne  bowed. 

1 68 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

"They  are  indeed  at  an  end.  I  am  sorry  I  can- 
not sell  you  the  property." 

"What?"  cried  Mr.  Barker,  starting  to  his 
feet. 

"Mr.  Buck  has  spoken  correctly,"  said  the 
King. 

"I  have,  I  have,"  cried  Buck,  springing  up  also; 
"I  said—" 

"Mr.  Buck  has  spoken  correctly,"  said  the 
King;  "the  negotiations  are  at  an  end." 

All  the  men  at  the  table  rose  to  their  feet; 
Wayne  alone  rose  without  excitement. 

"Have  I,  then,"  he  said,  "your  Majesty's  per- 
mission to  depart?  I  have  given  my  last 
answer." 

"You  have  it,"  said  Auberon,  smiling,  but  not 
lifting  his  eyes  from  the  table.  And  amid  a  dead 
silence  the  Provost  of  Netting  Hill  passed  out  of 
the  room. 

"Well  ?"  said  Wilson,  turning  round  to  Barker, 
"Well?" 

Barker  shook  his  head  desperately. 

"The  man  ought  to  be  in  an  asylum,"  he 
said.  "But  one  thing  is  clear,  we  need  not 
bother  further  about  him.  The  man  can  be 
treated  as  mad." 

"Of  course,"  said  Buck,  turning  to  him  with 
sombre  decisiveness.  "You're  perfectly  right, 

169 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Barker.  He  is  a  good  enough  fellow,  but  he 
can  be  treated  as  mad.  Let's  put  it  in  simple 
form.  Go  and  tell  any  twelve  men  in  any 
town,  go  and  tell  any  doctor  in  any  town, 
that  there  is  a  man  offered  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  for  a  thing  he  could  sell  commonly 
for  four  hundred,  and  that  when  asked  for  a 
reason  for  not  accepting  it  he  pleads  the  inviolate 
sanctity  of  Notting  Hill  and  calls  it  the  Holy 
Mountain.  What  would  they  say?  What  more 
can  we  have  on  our  side  than  the  common- 
sense  of  everybody?  On  what  else  do  all  laws 
rest?  I'll  tell  you,  Barker,  what's  better  than 
any  further  discussion.  Let's  send  in  workmen 
on  the  spot  to  pull  down  Pump  Street.  And  if 
old  Wayne  says  a  word,  arrest  him  as  a  lunatic. 
That's  all." 

Barker's  eyes  kindled. 

"I  always  regarded  you,  Buck,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so,  as  a  very  strong  man.  I'll 
follow  you." 

"So,  of  course,  will  I,"  said  Wilson. 

Buck  rose  again  impulsively. 

"Your  Majesty,"  he  said,  glowing  with  popu- 
larity, "I  beseech  your  Majesty  to  consider 
favourably  the  proposal  to  which  we  have  com- 
mitted ourselves.  Your  Majesty's  leniency, 
our  own  offers,  have  fallen  in  vain  on  that 

170 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

extraordinary  man.  He  may  be  right.  He 
may  be  God.  He  may  be  the  devil.  But  we 
think  it,  for  practical  purposes,  more  prob- 
able that  he  is  off  his  head.  Unless  that 
assumption  were  acted  on,  all  human  affairs 
would  go  to  pieces.  We  act  on  it,  and  we 
propose  to  start  operations  in  Notting  Hill  at 
once." 

The  King  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"The  Charter  of  the  Cities  ..."  he  said  witH 
a  rich  intonation. 

But  Buck,  being  finally  serious,  was  also 
cautious,  and  did  not  again  make  the  mistake  of 
disrespect. 

"Your  Majesty,"  he  said,  bowing,  "I  am 
not  here  to  say  a  word  against  anything  your 
Majesty  has  said  or  done.  You  are  a  far  better 
educated  man  than  I,  and  no  doubt  there  were 
reasons,  upon  intellectual  grounds,  for  those 
proceedings.  But  may  I  ask  you  and  appeal  to 
your  common  good-nature  for  a  sincere  answer? 
When  you  drew  up  the  Charter  of  the  Cities 
did  you  contemplate  the  rise  of  a  man  like 
Adam  Wayne?  Did  you  expect  that  the 
Charter — whether  it  was  an  experiment,  or  a 
scheme  of  decoration,  or  a  joke — could  ever 
really  come  to  this — to  stopping  a  vast  scheme 
of  ordinary  business,  to  shutting  up  a  road,  to 

171 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

spoiling  the  chances  of  cabs,  omnibuses,  railway 
stations,  to  disorganising  half  a  city,  to  risking  a 
kind  of  civil  war  ?  .Whatever  were  your  objects, 
were  they  that  ?" 

Barker  and  Wilson  looked  at  him  admiringly; 
the  King  more  admiringly  still. 

"Provost  Buck,"  said  Auberon,  "you  speak  in 
public  uncommonly  well.  I  give  you  your  point 
with  the  magnanimity  of  an  artist.  My  scheme 
did  not  include  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Wayne. 
Alas !  would  that  my  poetic  power  had  been  great 
enough." 

"I  thank  your  Majesty,"  said  Buck,  courte- 
ously but  quickly.  "Your  Majesty's  statements 
are  always  clear  and  studied:  therefore  I  may 
draw  a  deduction.  As  the  scheme,  whatever  it 
was,  on  which  you  set  your  heart  did  not 
include  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Wayne,  it  will 
survive  his  removal.  Why  not  let  us  clear 
away  this  particular  Pump  Street,  which  does 
interfere  with  our  plans,  and  which  does  not,  by 
your  Majesty's  own  statement,  interfere  with 
yours." 

"Caught  out!"  said  the  King,  enthusiastically 
and  quite  impersonally,  as  if  he  were  watching  a 
cricket  match. 

"This  man  Wayne,"  continued  Buck,  "would 
be  shut  up  by  any  doctors  in  England.  But  we 

172 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

only  ask  to  have  it  put  before  them.  Mean- 
while no  one's  interests,  not  even  in  all  proba- 
bility his  own,  can  be  really  damaged  by  going 
on  with  the  improvements  in  Notting  Hill.  Not 
our  interests,  of  course,  for  it  has  been  the 
hard  and  quiet  work  of  ten  years.  Not  the 
interests  of  Notting  Hill,  for  nearly  all  its 
educated  inhabitants  desire  the  change.  Not 
the  interests  of  your  Majesty,  for  you  say,  with 
characteristic  sense,  that  you  never  contemplated 
the  rise  of  the  lunatic  at  all.  Not,  as  I  say,  his 
own  interests,  for  the  man  has  a  kind  heart  and 
many  talents,  and  a  couple  of  good  doctors  would 
probably  put  him  righter  than  all  the  free  cities 
and  sacred  mountains  in  creation.  I  therefore 
assume,  if  I  may  use  so  bold  a  word,  that  your 
Majesty  will  not  offer  any  obstacle  to  our  pro- 
ceeding with  the  improvements." 

And  Mr.  Buck  sat  down  amid  subdued  but 
excited  applause  among  the  allies. 

"Mr.  Buck,"  said  the  King,  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
for  a  number  of  beautiful  and  sacred  thoughts, 
in  which  you  were  generally  classified  as  a 
fool.  But  there  is  another  thing  to  be  consid- 
ered. Suppose  you  send  in  your  workmen, 
and  Mr.  Wayne  does  a  thing  regrettable  indeed, 
but  of  which  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  think  him  quite 
capable — knocks  their  teeth  out." 

173 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"I  have  thought  of  that,  your  Majesty,"  said 
Mr.  Buck,  easily,  "and  I  think  it  can  simply 
be  guarded  against.  Let  us  send  in  a  strong 
guard  of  say  a  hundred  men — a  hundred  of 
the  North  Kensington  Halberdiers"  (he  smiled 
grimly),  "of  whom  your  Majesty  is  so  fond. 
Or  say — a  hundred  and  fifty.  The  whole 
population  of  Pump  Street,  I  fancy,  is  only  about 
a  hundred." 

"Still  they  might  stand  together  and  lick  you," 
said  the  King,  dubiously. 

"Then  say  two  hundred,"  said  Buck,  gaily. 

"It  might  happen,"  said  the  King,  restlessly, 
"that  one  Notting  Hiller  fought  better  than  two 
North  Kensingtons." 

"It  might,"  said  Buck,  coolly;  "then  say  two 
hundred  and  fifty." 

The  King  bit  his  lip. 

"And  if  they  are  beaten,  too,"  he  said 
viciously. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  Buck,  and  leaned  back 
easily  in  his  chair.  "Suppose  they  are.  If  any- 
thing be  clear,  it  is  clear  that  all  fighting 
matters  are  mere  matters  of  arithmetic.  Here 
we  have  a  hundred  and  fifty  say  of  Notting  Hill 
soldiers.  Or  say  two  hundred.  If  one  of 
them  can  fight  two  of  us — we  can  send  in,  not 
four  hundred,  but  six  hundred,  and  smash 

174 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

him.  That  is  all.  It  is  out  of  all  immediate 
probability  that  one  of  them  could  fight  four  of 
us.  So  what  I  say  is  this.  Run  no  risks. 
Finish  it  at  once.  Send  in  eight  hundred  men 
and  smash  him — smash  him  almost  without 
seeing  him.  And  go  on  with  the  improve- 
ments." 

And  Mr.  Buck  pulled  out  a  bandanna  and  blew 
his  nose. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Buck,"  said  the  King, 
staring  gloomily  at  the  table,  "the  admirable 
clearness  of  your  reason  produces  in  my  mind 
a  sentiment  which  I  trust  I  shall  not  offend 
you  by  describing  as  an  aspiration  to  punch 
your  head.  You  irritate  me  sublimely.  What 
can  it  be  in  me?  Is  it  the  relic  of  a  moral 
sense  ?" 

"But  your  Majesty,"  said  Barker,  eagerly  and 
suavely,  "does  not  refuse  our  proposals  ?" 

"My  dear  Barker,  your  proposals  are  as  dam- 
nable as  your  manners.  I  want  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  them.  Suppose  I  stopped  them 
altogether.  What  would  happen  ?" 

Barker  answered  in  a  very  low  voice — 

"Revolution." 

The  King  glanced  quickly  at  the  men  around 
the  table.  They  were  all  looking  down  silently: 
their  brows  were  red. 

175 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

He  rose  with  a  startling  suddenness,  and  an 
unusual  pallor. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  have  overruled  me. 
Therefore  I  can  speak  plainly.  I  think  Adam 
Wayne,  who  is  as  mad  as  a  hatter,  worth 
more  than  a  million  of  you.  But  you  have  the 
force,  and,  I  admit,  the  common  sense,  and  he  is 
lost.  Take  your  eight  hundred  halberdiers  and 
smash  him.  It  would  be  more  sportsmanlike  to 
take  two  hundred." 

"More  sportsmanlike,"  said  Buck,  grimly,  "but 
a  great  deal  less  humane.  We  are  not  artists,  and 
streets  purple  with  gore  do  not  catch  our  eye  in 
the  right  way." 

"It  is  pitiful,"  said  Auberon.  "With  five  or 
six  times  their  number  there  will  be  no  fight  at 
all." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Buck,  rising  and  adjusting 
his  gloves.  "We  desire  no  fight,  your  Majesty. 
We  are  peaceable  business  men." 

"Well,"  said  the  King,  wearily,  "the  conference 
is  at  an  end  at  last." 

And  he  went  out  of  the  room  before  any  one 
else  could  stir. 

Forty  workmen,  a  hundred  Bayswater  Halber- 
diers, two  hundred  from  South,  and  three  from 
North  Kensington,  assembled  at  the  foot  of  Hol- 

176 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

land  Walk  and  marched  up  it,  under  the  general 
direction  of  Barker,  who  looked  flushed  and 
happy  in  full  dress.  At  the  end  of  the  procession 
a  small  and  sulky  figure  lingered  like  an  urchin. 
It  was  the  King. 

"Barker,"  he  said  at  length,  appealingly,  "you 
are  an  old  friend  of  mine — you  understand 
my  hobbies  as  I  understand  yours.  Why  can't 
you  let  it  alone?  I  hoped  that  such  fun 
might  come  out  of  this  Wayne  business.  Why 
can't  you  let  it  alone?  It  doesn't  really  so  much 
matter  to  you — what's  a  road  or  so?  For  me 
it's  the  one  joke  that  may  save  me  from 
pessimism.  Take  fewer  men  and  give  me  an 
hour's  fun.  Really  and  truly,  James,  if  you 
collected  coins  or  humming-birds,  and  I  could 
buy  one  with  the  price  of  your  road,  I  would 
buy  it.  I  collect  incidents — those  rare,  those 
precious  things.  Let  me  have  one.  Pay  a  few 
pounds  for  it.  Give  these  Notting  Killers  a 
chance.  Let  them  alone." 

"Auberon,"  said  Barker,  kindly,  forgetting  all 
royal  titles  in  a  rare  moment  of  sincerity, 
"I  do  feel  what  you  mean.  I  have  had  mo- 
ments when  these  hobbies  have  hit  me.  I  have 
had  moments  when  I  have  sympathised  with 
your  humours.  I  have  had  moments,  though 
you  may  not  easily  believe  it,  when  I  have 

177 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

sympathised  with  the  madness  of  Adam  Wayne. 
But  the  world,  Auberon,  the  real  world,  is 
not  run  on  these  hobbies.  It  goes  on  great 
brutal  wheels  of  facts — wheels  on  which  you 
are  the  butterfly.  And  Wayne  is  the  fly  on 
the  wheel." 

Auberon's  eyes  looked  frankly  at  the  other's. 

"Thank  you,  James;  what  you  say  is  true. 
It  is  only  a  parenthetical  consolation  to  me  to 
compare  the  intelligence  of  flies  somewhat  favour- 
ably with  the  intelligence  of  wheels.  But  it  is  the 
nature  of  flies  to  die  soon,  and  the  nature  of 
wheels  to  go  on  for  ever.  Go  on  with  the  wheel. 
Good-bye,  old  man." 

And  James  Barker  went  on,  laughing,  with  a 
high  colour,  slapping  his  bamboo  on  his  leg. 

The  King  watched  the  tail  of  the  retreating 
regiment  with  a  look  of  genuine  depression,  which 
made  him  seem  more  like  a  baby  than  ever. 
Then  he  swung  round  and  struck  his  hands 
together. 

"In  a  world  without  humour,"  he  said, 
"the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  eat.  And  how 
perfect  an  exception!  How  can  these  people 
strike  dignified  attitudes,  and  pretend  that 
things  matter,  when  the  total  ludicrousness  of 
life  is  proved  by  the  very  method  by  which  it 
is  supported?  A  man  strikes  the  lyre,  and 

178 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

says,  'Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest,'  and  then 
goes  into  a  room  and  stuffs  alien  substances  into 
a  hole  in  his  head.  I  think  Nature  was  indeed 
a  little  broad  in  her  humour  in  these  matters. 
But  we  all  fall  back  on  the  pantomime,  as 
I  have  in  this  municipal  affair.  Nature  has 
her  farces,  like  the  act  of  eating  or  the  shape 
of  the  kangaroo,  for  the  more  brutal  appe- 
tite. She  keeps  her  stars  and  mountains  for 
those  who  can  appreciate  something  more 
subtly  ridiculous."  He  turned  to  his  equerry. 
"But,  as  I  said  'eating,'  let  us  have  a  picnic  like 
two  nice  little  children.  Just  run  and  bring 
me  a  table  and  a  dozen  courses  or  so,  and 
plenty  of  champagne,  and  under  these  swinging 
boughs,  Bowler,  we  will  return  to  Nature." 

It  took  about  an  hour  to  erect  in  Holland  Lane 
the  monarch's  simple  repast,  during  which 
time  he  walked  up  and  down  and  whistled,  but 
still  with  an  unaffected  air  of  gloom.  He  had 
really  been  done  out  of  a  pleasure  he  had 
promised  himself,  and  had  that  empty  and 
sickened  feeling  which  a  child  has  when  dis- 
appointed of  a  pantomime.  When  he  and  the 
equerry  had  sat  down,  however,  and  consumed  a 
fair  amount  of  dry  champagne,  his  spirits  began 
mildly  to  revive. 

"Things  take  too  long  in  this  world,"  he  said. 
179 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"I  detest  all  this  Barker ian  business  about 
evolution  and  the  gradual  modification  of  things. 
I  wish  the  world  had  been  made  in  six  days, 
and  knocked  to  pieces  again  in  six  more. 
And  I  wish  I  had  done  it.  The  joke's  good 
enough  in  a  broad  way,  sun  and  moon  and  the 
image  of  God,  and  all  that,  but  they  keep  it  up 
so  damnably  long.  Did  you  ever  long  for  a 
miracle,  Bowler?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Bowler,  who  was  an  evolution- 
ist, and  had  been  carefully  brought  up. 

"Then  I  have,"  answered  the  King.  "I  have 
walked  along  a  street  with  the  best  cigar  in  the 
cosmos  in  my  mouth,  and  more  Burgundy 
inside  me  than  you  ever  saw  in  your  life, 
and  longed  that  the  lamp-post  would  turn  into 
an  elephant  to  save  me  from  the  hell  of  blank 
existence.  Take  my  word  for  it,  my  evolu- 
tionary Bowler,  don't  you  believe  people  when 
they  tell  you  that  people  sought  for  a  sign,  and 
believed  in  miracles  because  they  were  ignorant. 
They  did  it  because  they  were  wise,  filthily,  vilely 
wise — too  wise  to  eat  or  sleep  or  put  on  their 
boots  with  patience.  This  seems  delightfully  like 
a  new  theory  of  the  origin  of  Christianity,  which 
would  itself  be  a  thing  of  no  mean  absurdity.  Take 
some  more  wine." 

The  wind  blew  round  them  as  they  sat  at  their 
180 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

little  table,  with  its  white  cloth  and  bright 
wine-cups,  and  flung  the  tree-tops  of  Holland 
Park  against  each  other,  but  the  sun  was  in  that 
strong  temper  which  turns  green  into  gold.  The 
King  pushed  away  his  plate,  lit  a  cigar  slowly, 
and  went  on — 

"Yesterday  I  thought  that  something  next 
door  to  a  really  entertaining  miracle  might 
happen  to  me  before  I  went  to  amuse  the 
worms.  To  see  that  red-haired  maniac  waving 
a  great  sword,  and  making  speeches  to  his 
incomparable  followers,  would  have  been  a 
glimpse  of  that  Land  of  Youth  from  which 
the  Fates  shut  us  out.  I  had  planned  some 
quite  delightful  things.  A  Congress  of  Knights- 
bridge  with  a  treaty,  and  myself  in  the  chair, 
and  perhaps  a  Roman  triumph,  with  jolly  old 
Barker  led  in  chains.  And  now  these  wretched 
prigs  have  gone  and  stamped  out  the  exquisite 
Mr.  Wayne  altogether,  and  I  suppose  they  will 
put  him  in  a  private  asylum  somewhere  in  their 
damned  humane  way.  Think  of  the  treasures 
daily  poured  out  to  his  unappreciative  keeper! 
I  wonder  whether  they  would  let  me  be  his 
keeper.  But  life  is  a  vale.  Never  forget  at 
any  moment  of  your  existence  to  regard  it  in  the 
light  of  a  vale.  This  graceful  habit,  if  not 
acquired  in  youth — " 

181 


The  Napoleon  of  Nolting  Hill 

The  King  stopped,  with  his  cigar  lifted,  for 
there  had  slid  into  his  eyes  the  startled  look  of 
a  man  listening.  He  did  not  move  for  a  few 
moments;  then  he  turned  his  head  sharply 
towards  the  high,  thin,  and  lath-like  paling  which 
fenced  certain  long  gardens  and  similar  spaces 
from  the  lane.  From  behind  it  there  was 
coming  a  curious  scrambling  and  scraping 
noise,  as  of  a  desperate  thing  imprisoned  in  this 
box  of  thin  wood.  The  King  threw  away  his 
cigar,  and  jumped  on  to  the  table.  From  this 
position  he  saw  a  pair  of  hands  hanging  with  a 
hungry  clutch  on  the  top  of  the  fence.  Then 
the  hands  quivered  with  a  convulsive  effort,  and 
a  head  shot  up  between  them — the  head  of  one 
of  the  Bayswater  Town  Council,  his  eyes  and 
whiskers  wild  with  fear.  He  swung  himself 
over,  and  fell  on  the  other  side  on  his  face,  and 
groaned  openly  and  without  ceasing.  The  next 
moment  the  thin,  taut  wood  of  the  fence  was 
struck  as  by  a  bullet,  so  that  it  reverberated 
like  a  drum,  and  over  it  came  tearing  and 
cursing,  with  torn  clothes  and  broken  nails  and 
bleeding  faces,  twenty  men  at  one  rush.  The 
King  sprang  five  feet  clear  off  the  table  on  to 
the  ground.  The  moment  after  the  table  was 
flung  over,  sending  bottles  and  glasses  flying, 
and  the  debris  was  literally  swept  along  the 

182 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

ground  by  that  stream  of  men  pouring  past,  and 
Bowler  was  borne  along  with  them,  as  the 
King  said  in  his  famous  newspaper  article, 
"like  a  captured  bride."  The  great  fence 
swung  and  split  under  the  load  of  climbers  that 
still  scaled  and  cleared  it.  Tremendous  gaps 
were  torn  in  it  by  this  living  artillery;  and 
through  them  the  King  could  see  more  and 
more  frantic  faces,  as  in  a  dream,  and  more  and 
more  men  running.  They  were  as  miscel- 
laneous as  if  some  one  had  taken  the  lid  off 
a  human  dustbin.  Some  were  untouched,  some 
were  slashed  and  battered  and  bloody,  some 
were  splendidly  dressed,  some  tattered  and 
half-naked,  some  were  in  the  fantastic  garb  of 
the  burlesque  cities,  some  in  the  dullest  mod- 
ern dress.  The  King  stared  at  all  of  them,  but 
none  of  them  looked  at  the  King.  Suddenly  he 
stepped  forward. 

"Barker,"  he  said,  "what  is  all  this?" 
"Beaten,"  said  the  politician — "beaten  all  to 
hell!"     And    he    plunged    past    with    nostrils 
shaking  like  a  horse's,  and  more  and  more  men 
plunged  after  him. 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  the  last  standing  strip  of 
fence  bowed  and  snapped,  flinging,  as  from 
a  catapult,  a  new  figure  upon  the  road.  'He  wore 
the  flaming  red  of  the  halberdiers  of  Notting 

183 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Hill,  and  on  his  weapon  there  was  blood, 
and  in  his  face  victory.  In  another  moment 
masses  of  red  glowed  through  the  gaps  of 
the  fence,  and  the  pursuers,  with  their  halberds, 
came  pouring  down  the  lane.  Pursued  and  pur- 
suers alike  swept  by  the  little  figure  with  the 
owlish  eyes,  who  had  not  taken  his  hands  out  of 
his  pockets. 

The  King  had  still  little  beyond  the  confused 
sense  of  a  man  caught  in  a  torrent — the  feeling 
of  men  eddying  by.  Then  something  happened 
which  he  was  never  able  afterwards  to  describe, 
and  which  we  cannot  describe  for  him.  Suddenly 
in  the  dark  entrance,  between  the  broken  gates 
of  a  garden,  there  appeared  framed  a  flaming 
figure. 

Adam  Wayne,  the  conqueror,  with  his  face 
flung  back,  and  his  mane  like  a  lion's,  stood 
with  his  great  sword  point  upwards,  the  red 
raiment  of  his  office  flapping  round  him  like 
the  red  wings  of  an  archangel.  And  the  King 
saw,  he  knew  not  how,  something  new  and  over- 
whelming. The  great  green  trees  and  the 
great  red  robes  swung  together  in  the  wind. 
The  sword  seemed  made  for  the  sunlight.  The 
preposterous  masquerade,  born  of  his  own 
mockery,  towered  over  him  and  embraced  the 
world.  This  was  the  normal,  this  was  sanity, 

184 


The  Experiment  of  Mr.  Buck 

this  was  nature;  and  he  himself,  with  his 
rationality  and  his  detachment  and  his  black  frock 
coat,  he  was  the  exception  and  the  accident — 
a  blot  of  black  upon  a  world  of  crimson  and 
gold. 


185 


BOOK  IV 


CHAPTER    I — The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 

MR.  BUCK,  who,  though  retired,  fre- 
quently went  down  to  his  big 
drapery  stores  in  Kensington  High 
Street,  was  locking  up  those  premises,  being 
the  last  to  leave.  It  was  a  wonderful  evening 
of  green  and  gold,  but  that  did  not  trouble 
him  very  much.  If  you  had  pointed  it  out, 
he  would  have  agreed  seriously,  for  the  rich 
always  desire  to  be  artistic. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  cool  air,  buttoning  up 
his  light  coat,  and  blowing  great  clouds  from 
his  cigar,  when  a  figure  dashed  up  to  him  in  an- 
other yellow  overcoat,  but  unbuttoned  and  flying 
behind  him. 

"Hullo,  Barker!"  said  the  draper.  "Any  of 
our  summer  articles?  You're  too  late.  Fac- 
tory Acts,  Barker.  Humanity  and  progress, 
my  boy." 

"Oh,  don't  chatter,"  cried  Barker,  stamping. 
"We've  been  beaten." 

"Beaten — by  what  ?"  asked  Buck,  mystified. 

"By  Wayne." 

Buck  looked  at  Barker's  fierce  white  face  for 
the  first  time,  as  it  gleamed  in  the  lamplight. 

"Come  and  have  a  drink,"  he  said. 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

They  adjourned  to  a  cushioned  and  glaring 
buffet,  and  Buck  established  himself  slowly  and 
lazily  in  a  seat,  and  pulled  out  his  cigar-case. 

"Have  a  smoke,"  he  said. 

Barker  was  still  standing,  and  on  the  fret,  but 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  sat  down,  as  if  he 
might  spring  up  again  the  next  minute.  They 
ordered  drinks  in  silence. 

"How  did  it  happen  ?"  asked  Buck,  turning  his 
big  bold  eyes  on  him. 

"How  the  devil  do  I  know?"  cried  Barker. 
"It  happened  like — like  a  dream.  How  can 
two  hundred  men  beat  six  hundred?  How  can 
they?" 

"Well,"  said  Buck,  coolly.  "How  did  they? 
You  ought  to  know." 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  describe,"  said  the 
other,  drumming  on  the  table.  "It  seemed 
like  this.  We  were  six  hundred  and  marched 
with  those  damned  poleaxes  of  Auberon's — 
the  only  weapons  we've  got.  We  marched  two 
abreast.  We  went  up  to  Holland  Walk,  between 
the  high  palings  which  seemed  to  me  to  go 
straight  as  an  arrow  for  Pump  Street.  I  was 
near  the  tail  of  the  line  and  it  was  a  long  one. 
When  the  end  of  it  was  still  between  the  high 
palings,  the  head  of  the  line  was  already  crossing 
Holland  Park  Avenue.  Then  the  head  plunged 

190 


The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 


into  the  network  of  narrow  streets  on  the 
other  side,  and  the  tail  and  myself  came  out  on 
the  great  crossing.  When  we  also  had  reached 
the  northern  side  and  turned  up  a  small  street 
that  points,  crookedly  as  it  were,  towards 
Pump  Street,  the  whole  thing  felt  different.  The 
streets  dodged  and  bent  so  much  that  the  head 
of  our  line  seemed  lost  altogether:  it  might  as 
well  have  been  in  North  America.  And  all  this 
time  we  hadn't  seen  a  soul." 

Buck,  who  was  idly  dabbing  the  ash  of  his 
cigar  on  the  ash-tray,  began  to  move  it  deliber- 
ately over  the  table,  making  feathery  grey  lines, 
a  kind  of  map. 

"But  though  the  little  streets  were  all  de- 
serted (which  got  a  trifle  on  my  nerves),  as 
we  got  deeper  and  deeper  into  them,  a  thing 
began  to  happen  that  I  couldn't  understand. 
Sometimes  a  long  way  ahead — three  turns  or 
corners  ahead,  as  it  were — there  broke  suddenly 
a  sort  of  noise,  clattering,  and  confused  cries, 
and  then  stopped.  Then,  when  it  happened, 
something,  I  can't  describe  it — a  kind  of  shake 
or  stagger  went  down  the  line,  as  if  the  line 
were  a  live  thing,  whose  head  had  been  struck, 
or  had  been  an  electric  cord.  None  of  us  knew 
why  we  were  moving,  but  we  moved  and 
jostled.  Then  we  recovered,  and  went  on 

191 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

through  the  little  dirty  streets,  round  corners, 
and  up  twisted  ways.  The  little  crooked  streets 
began  to  give  me  a  feeling  I  can't  explain — as  if 
it  were  a  dream.  I  felt  as  if  things  had  lost  their 
reason,  and  we  should  never  get  out  of  the 
maze.  Odd  to  hear  me  talk  like  that,  isn't  it  ?  The 
streets  were  quite  well-known  streets,  all  down 
on  the  map.  But  the  fact  remains.  I  wasn't  afraid 
of  something  happening.  I  was  afraid  of  nothing 
ever  happening — nothing  ever  happening  for  all 
God's  eternity." 

He  drained  his  glass  and  called  for  more 
whisky.  He  drank  it  and  went  on. 

"And  then  something  did  happen.  Buck,  it's 
the  solemn  truth,  that  nothing  has  ever  happened 
to  you  in  your  life.  Nothing  had  ever  happened 
to  me  in  my  life." 

"Nothing  ever  happened!"  said  Buck,  staring. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing  has  ever  happened,"  repeated  Barker, 
with  a  morbid  obstinacy.  "You  don't  know 
what  a  thing  happening  means?  You  sit  in 
your  office  expecting  customers,  and  customers 
come;  you  walk  in  the  street  expecting  friends, 
and  friends  meet  you;  you  want  a  drink  and 
get  it;  you  feel  inclined  for  a  bet  and  make 
it.  You  expect  either  to  win  or  lose,  and 
you  do  either  one  or  the  other.  But 

192 


The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 


things   happening!"   and   he   shuddered   ungov- 
ernably. 

"Go  on,"  said  Buck,  shortly.    "Get  on." 

"As  we  walked  wearily  round  the  corners, 
something  happened.  When  something  hap- 
pens, it  happens  first,  and  you  see  it  afterwards. 
It  happens  of  itself,  and  you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  It  proves  a  dreadful  thing — that  there 
are  other  things  besides  one's  self.  I  can  only 
put  it  in  this  way.  We  went  round  one  turn- 
ing, two  turnings,  three  turnings,  four  turnings, 
five.  •  Then  I  lifted  myself  slowly  up  from  the 
gutter  where  I  had  been  shot  half  senseless, 
and  was  beaten  down  again  by  living  men 
crashing  on  top  of  me,  and  the  world  was  full 
of  roaring,  and  big  men  rolling  about  like  nine- 
pins." 

Buck  looked  at  his  map  with  knitted  brows. 

"Was  that  Portobello  Road?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Barker.  "Yes ;  Portobello  Road— 
I  saw  it  afterwards;  but,  my  God — what  a 
place  it  was!  Buck,  have  you  ever  stood  and 
let  a  six  foot  of  a  man  lash  and  lash  at 
your  head  with  six  feet  of  pole  with  six 
pounds  of  steel  at  the  end?  Because,  when 
you  have  had  that  experience,  as  Walt 
Whitman  says,  'you  re-examine  philosophies  and 
religions.' ' 

J93 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Buck.  "If  that 
was  Portobello  Road,  don't  you  see  what 
happened  ?" 

"I  know  what  happened  exceedingly  well.  I 
was  knocked  down  four  times;  an  experience 
which,  as  I  say,  has  an  effect  on  the  mental 
attitude.  And  another  thing  happened,  too.  I 
knocked  down  two  men.  After  the  fourth 
fall  (there  was  not  much  bloodshed — more 
brutal  rushing  and  throwing — for  nobody  could 
use  their  weapons),  after  the  fourth  fall,  I  say, 
I  got  up  like  a  devil,  and  I  tore  a  poleaxe  out 
of  a  man's  hand  and  struck  where  I  saw  the 
scarlet  of  Wayne's  fellows,  struck  again  and 
again.  Two  of  them  went  over,  bleeding  on 
the  stones,  thank  God — and  I  laughed  and 
found  myself  sprawling  in  the  gutter  again,  and 
got  up  again,  and  struck  again,  and  broke  my 
halberd  to  pieces.  I  hurt  a  man's  head, 
though." 

Buck  set  down  his  glass  with  a  bang,  and  spat 
out  curses  through  his  thick  moustache. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Barker,  stopping, 
for  the  man  had  been  calm  up  to  now,  and 
now  his  agitation  was  far  more  violent  than 
ftiis  own. 

"The  matter?"  said  Buck,  bitterly;  "don't  you 
see  how  these  maniacs  have  got  us?  Why 

194 


The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 


should  two  idiots,  one  a  clown  and  the  other  a 
screaming  lunatic,  make  sane  men  so  different 
from  themselves?  Look  here,  Barker;  I  will  give 
you  a  picture.  A  very  well-bred  young  man 
of  this  century  is  dancing  about  in  a  frock-coat. 
He  has  in  his  hands  a  nonsensical  seventeenth 
century  halberd,  with  which  he  is  trying  to 
kill  men  in  a  street  in  Netting  Hill.  Damn 
it!  don't  you  see  how  they've  got  us?  Never 
mind  how  you  felt — that  is  how  you  looked. 
The  King  would  put  his  cursed  head  on  one 
side  and  call  it  exquisite.  The  Provost  of 
Notting  Hill  would  put  his  cursed  nose  in 
the  air  and  call  it  heroic.  But  m  Heaven's 
name  what  would  you  have  called  it — two  days 
before?" 

Barker  bit  his  lip. 

"You  haven't  been  through  it,  Buck,"  he 
said.  "You  don't  understand  fighting — the 
atmosphere." 

"I  don't  deny  the  atmosphere,"  said  Buck, 
striking  the  table.  "I  only  say  it's  their  atmos- 
phere. It's  Adam  Wayne's  atmosphere.  It's  the 
atmosphere  which  you  and  I  thought  had  vanished 
from  an  educated  world  for  ever." 

"Well,  it  hasn't,"  said  Barker;  "and  if  you  have 
any  lingering  doubts,  lend  me  a  poleaxe  and  I'll 
show  you." 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Buck 
turned  to  his  neighbour  and  spoke  in  that  good- 
tempered  tone  that  comes  of  a  power  of  looking 
facts  in  the  face;  the  tone  in  which  he  concluded 
great  bargains. 

"Barker,"  he  said,  "you  are  right.  This 
old  thing — this  fighting,  has  come  back.  It  has 
come  back  suddenly  and  taken  us  by  surprise. 
So  it  is  first  blood  to  Adam  Wayne.  But, 
unless  reason  and  arithmetic  and  everything 
else  have  gone  crazy,  it  must  be  next  and 
last  blood  to  us.  But  when  an  issue  has  really 
arisen,  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do — to 
study  that  issue  as  such  and  win  in  it.  Barker, 
since  it  is  fighting,  we  must  understand  fight- 
ing. I  must  understand  fighting  as  coolly  and 
completely  as  I  understand  drapery;  you  must 
understand  fighting  as  coolly  and  completely 
as  you  understand  politics.  Now,  look  at 
the  facts.  I  stick  without  hesitation  to  my 
original  formula.  Fighting,  when  we  have  the 
stronger  force,  is  only  a  matter  of  arithmetic. 
It  must  be.  You  asked  me  just  now  how  two 
hundred  men  could  defeat  six  hundred.  I  can 
tell  you.  Two  hundred  men  can  defeat  six 
hundred  when  the  six  hundred  behave  like 
fools.  When  they  forget  the  very  conditions 
they  are  fighting  in;  when  they  fight  in  a 

196 


The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 


swamp  as  if  it  were  a  mountain;  when  they 
fight  in  a  forest  as  if  it  were  a  plain ;  when  they 
fight  in  streets  without  remembering  the  object  of 
streets." 

"What  is  the  object  of  streets?"  asked 
Barker. 

"What  is  the  object  of  supper?"  cried 
Buck,  furiously.  "Isn't  it  obvious?  This 
military  science  is  mere  common  sense.  The 
object  of  a  street  is  to  lead  from  one  place 
to  another;  therefore  all  streets  join;  therefore 
street  fighting  is  quite  a  peculiar  thing.  You 
advanced  into  that  hive  of  streets  as  if  you  were 
advancing  into  an  open  plain  where  you  could 
see  everything.  Instead  of  that  you  were 
advancing  into  the  bowels  of  a  fortress,  with 
streets  pointing  at  you,  streets  turning  on  you, 
streets  jumping  Out  at  you,  and  all  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  Do  you  know  what 
Portobello  Road  is?  It  is  the  only  point  on 
your  journey  where  two  side  streets  run  up 
opposite  each  other.  Wayne  massed  his  men  on 
the  two  sides,  and  when  he  had  let  enough 
of  your  line  go  past,  cut  it  in  two  like  a 
worm.  Don't  you  see  what  would  have  saved 
you?" 

Barker  shook  his  head. 

"Can't  your  'atmosphere'  help  you?"  asked 
197 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Buck,  bitterly.  "Must  I  attempt  explanations 
in  the  romantic  manner?  Suppose  that,  as  you 
were  fighting  blindly  with  the  red  Notting 
Killers  who  imprisoned  you  on  both  sides," 
you  had  heard  a  shout  from  behind  them. 
Suppose,  oh,  romantic  Barker!  that  behind 
the  red  tunics  you  had  seen  the  blue  and  gold 
of  South  Kensington  taking  them  in  the  rear, 
surrounding  them  in  their  turn  and  hurling  them 
on  to  your  halberds." 

"If  the  thing  had  been  possible,"  began  Barker, 
cursing. 

"The  thing  would  have  been  as  possible,"  said 
Buck,  simply;  "as  simple  as  arithmetic.  There 
are  a  certain  number  of  street  entries  that  lead 
to  Pump  Street.  There  are  not  nine  hundred; 
there  are  not  nine  million.  They  do  not  grow 
in  the  night.  They  do  not  increase  like  mush- 
rooms. It  must  be  possible  with  such  an  over- 
whelming force  as  we  have  to  advance  by  all  of 
them  at  once.  In  every  one  of  the  arteries,  or 
approaches,  we  can  put  almost  as  many  men  as 
Wayne  can  put  into  the  field  altogether.  Once  do 
that  and  we  have  him  to  demonstration.  It  is 
like  a  proposition  in  Euclid." 

"You  think  that  is  certain,"  said  Barker, 
anxious  but  dominated  delightfully. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,"  said  Buck,  getting 
198 


up  jovially.  "I  think  Adam  Wayne  made  an 
uncommonly  spirited  little  fight.  And  I  think  I 
am  confoundedly  sorry  for  him." 

"Buck,  you  are  a  great  man,"  cried  Barker, 
rising  also.  "You've  knocked  me  sensible 
again.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  was 
getting  romantic.  Of  course,  what  you  say 
is  adamantine  sense.  Fighting,  being  physical, 
must  be  mathematical.  We  were  beaten  because 
we  were  neither  mathematical  nor  physical  nor 
anything  else — because  we  deserved  to  be  beaten. 
Hold  all  the  approaches,  and  with  our  force  we 
must  have  him.  When  shall  we  open  the  next 
campaign  ?" 

"Now,"  said  Buck,  and  walked  out  of  the 
bar. 

"Now!"  cried  Barker,  following  him  eagerly. 
"Do  you  mean  now  ?  It  is  so  late." 

Buck  turned  on  him,  stamping. 

"Do  you  think  fighting  is  under  the  Factory 
Acts  ?"  he  said.  And  he  called  a  cab.  "Netting 
Hill  Gate  Station,"  he  said,  and  the  two  drove 
off. 

A  genuine  reputation  can  sometimes  be  made 
in  an  hour.  Buck,  in  the  next  sixty  or  eighty 
minutes  showed  himself  a  really  great  man  of 
action.  His  cab  carried  him  like  a  thunder- 

199 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

bolt  from  the  King  to  Wilson,  from  Wilson 
to  Swindon,  from  Swindon  to  Barker  again; 
if  his  course  was  jagged,  it  had  the  jagged- 
ness  of  the  lightning.  Only  two  things  he 
carried  with  him,  his  inevitable  cigar  and  the 
map  of  North  Kensington  and  Notting  Hill. 
There  were,  as  he  again  and  again  pointed  out, 
with  every  variety  of  persuasion  and  violence, 
only  nine  possible  ways  of  approaching  Pump 
Street  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  around  it; 
three  out  of  Westbourne  Grove,  two  out  of 
Ladbroke  Grove,  and  four  out  of  Notting  Hill 
High  Street.  And  he  had  detachments  of 
two  hundred  each,  stationed  at  every  one  of  the 
entrances  before  the  last  green  of  that  strange 
sunset  had  sunk  out  of  the  black  sky. 

The  sky  was  particularly  black,  and  on  this 
alone  was  one  false  protest  raised  against  the 
triumphant  optimism  of  the  Provost  of  North 
Kensington.  He  overruled  it  with  his  infectious 
common  sense. 

"There  is  no  such  thing,"  he  said,  "as  night 
in  London.  You  have  only  to  follow  the  line  of 
street  lamps.  Look,  here  is  the  map.  Two 
hundred  purple  North  Kensington  soldiers 
under  myself  march  up  Ossington  Street, 
two  hundred  more  under  Captain  Bruce, 
of  the  North  Kensington  Guard,  up  Clanricarde 

200 


The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 


Gardens.*  Two  hundred  yellow  West  Kensing- 
tons under  Provost  Swindon  attack  from  Pern- 
bridge  Road.  Two  hundred  more  of  my  men  from 
the  eastern  streets,  leading  away  from  Queen's 
Road.  Two  detachments  of  yellows  enter 
by  two  roads  from  Westbourne  Grove. 
Lastly,  two  hundred  green  Bayswaters  come 
down  from  the  North  through  Chepstow  Place, 
and  two  hundred  more  under  Provost  Wilson 
himself,  through  the  upper  part  of  Pembridge 
Road.  Gentlemen,  it  is  mate  in  two  moves.  The 
enemy  must  either  mass  in  Pump  Street  and 
be  cut  to  pieces — or  they  must  retreat  past 
the  Gaslight  &  Coke  Co. — and  rush  on  my  four 
hundred — or  they  must  retreat  past  St.  Luke's 
Church  and  rush  on  the  six  hundred  from 
the  West.  Unless  we  are  all  mad,  it's 
plain.  Come  on.  To  your  quarters  and  await 
Captain  Bruce' s  signal  to  advance.  Then  you 
have  only  to  walk  up  a  line  of  gas-lamps  and 
smash  this  nonsense  by  pure  mathematics.  To- 
morrow we  shall  be  all  civilians  again." 

His  optimism  glowed  like  a  great  fire  in  the 
night,  and  ran  round  the  terrible  ring  in  which 
Wayne  was  now  held  helpless.  The  fight  was 

*  ClanJicarde  Gardens  at  this  time  was  no  longer  a  cul-de- 
sac,  but  was  connected  by  Pump  Street  to  Pembridge  Square. 
See  map. 

201 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

already  over.  One  man's  energy  for  one  hour  had 
saved  the  city  from  war. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  Buck  walked  up  and 
down  silently  beside  the  motionless  clump  of 
his  two  hundred.  He  had  not  changed  his 
appearance  in  any  way,  except  to  sling  across 
his  yellow  overcoat  a  case  with  a  revolver  in  it. 
So  that  his  light-clad  modern  figure  showed  up 
oddly  beside  the  pompous  purple  uniforms  of  his 
halberdiers,  which  darkly  but  richly  coloured  the 
black  night. 

At  length  a  shrill  trumpet  rang  from  some  way 
up  the  street;  it  was  the  signal  of  advance. 
Buck  briefly  gave  the  word,  and  the  whole 
purple  line,  with  its  dimly  shining  steel,  moved 
up  the  side  alley.  Before  it  was  a  slope  of 
street,  long,  straight,  and  shining  in  the  dark. 
It  was  a  sword  pointed  at  Pump  Street,  the  heart 
at  which  nine  other  swords  were  pointed  that 
night. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour's  silent  marching 
brought  them  almost  within  earshot  of  any 
tumult  in  the  doomed  citadel.  But  still  there 
was  no  sound  and  no  sign  of  the  enemy.  This 
time,  at  any  rate,  they  knew  that  they  were  closing 
in  on  it  mechanically,  and  they  marched  on 
under  the  lamplight  and  the  dark  without  any 
of  that  eerie  sense  of  ignorance  which  Barker 

202 


had  felt  when  entering  the  hostile  country  by  one 
avenue  alone. 

"Halt — point  arms!"  cried  Buck,  suddenly, 
and  as  he  spoke  there  came  a  clatter  of  feet 
tumbling  along  the  stones.  But  the  halberds 
were  levelled  in  vain.  The  figure  that  rushed 
up  was  a  messenger  from  the  contingent  of  the 
North. 

"Victory,  Mr.  Buck !"  he  cried,  panting,  "they 
are  ousted.  Provost  Wilson  of  Bayswater  has 
taken  Pump  Street." 

Buck  ran  forward  in  his  excitement. 

"Then,  which  way  are  they  retreating?  It 
must  be  either  by  St.  Luke's  to  meet  Swindon,  or 
by  the  Gas  Company  to  meet  us.  Run  like  mad 
to  Swindon  and  see  that  the  yellows  are  hold- 
ing the  St.  Luke's  Road.  We  will  hold 
this,  never  fear.  We  have  them  in  an  iron  trap. 
Run!" 

As  the  messenger  dashed  away  into  the  dark- 
ness, the  great  guard  of  North  Kensington 
swung  on  with  the  certainty  of  a  machine. 
Yet  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  further  their 
halberd  points  again  fell  in  line  gleaming  in  the 
gas-light.  For  again  a  clatter  of  feet  was  heard 
on  the  stones,  and  again  it  proved  to  be  only  the 
messenger. 

"Mr.  Provost,"  he  said,  "the  yellow  West  Ken- 
203 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

singtons  have  been  holding  the  road  by  St. 
Luke's  for  twenty  minutes  since  the  capture  of 
Pump  Street.  Pump  Street  is  not  two  hundred 
yards  away,  they  cannot  be  retreating  down  that 
road." 

"Then  they  are  retreating  down  this!"  said 
Provost  Buck,  with  a  final  cheerfulness,  "and  by 
good  fortune  down  a  well-lighted  road,  though  it 
twists  about.  Forward!" 

As  they  moved  along  the  last  three  hundred 
yards  of  their  journey,  Buck  fell,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  perhaps,  into  a  kind  of  philo- 
sophical reverie,  for  men  of  his  type  are  always 
made  kindly,  and  as  it  were  melancholy,  by  suc- 
cess. 

"I  am  sorry  for  poor  old  Wayne,  I  really  am," 
he  thought.  "He  spoke  up  splendidly  for  me 
at  that  Council.  And  he  blacked  old  Barker's 
eye  with  considerable  spirit.  But  I  don't 
see  what  a  man  can  expect  when  he  fights 
against  arithmetic,  to  say  nothing  of  civilisation. 
And  what  a  wonderful  hoax  all  this  military 
genius  is.  I  suspect  I've  just  discovered  what 
Cromwell  discovered,  that  a  sensible  tradesman 
is  the  best  general,  and  that  a  man  who  can 
buy  mep  and  sell  men  can  lead  and  kill  them. 
The  thing's  simply  like  adding  up  a  column  in  a 
ledger.  If  Wayne  has  two  hundred  men,  he 

204 


The  Battle  of  the  Lamps 


can't  put  two  hundred  men  in  nine  places  at  once. 
If  they're  ousted  from  Pump  Street  they're 
flying  somewhere.  If  they're  not  flying  past 
the  church  they're  flying  past  the  Works.  And 
so  we  have  them.  We  business  men  should 
have  no  chance  at  all  except  that  cleverer  peo- 
ple than  we  get  bees  in  their  bonnets  that 
prevent  them  from  reasoning  properly — so  we 
reason  alone.  And  so  I,  who  am  comparatively 
stupid,  see  things  as  God  sees  them,  as  a  vast 
machine.  My  God,  what's  this?"  And  he 
clapped  his  hands  to  his  eyes  and  staggered 
back. 

Then  through  the  darkness  he  cried  in  a  dread- 
ful voice — 

"Did  I  blaspheme  God  ? — I  am  struck  blind." 

"What  ?"  wailed  another  voice  behind  him,  the 
voice  of  a  certain  Wilfred  Jarvis  of  North  Ken- 
sington. 

"Blind!"  cried  Buck;  "blind!" 

"I'm  blind,  too !"  cried  Jarvis,  in  an  agony. 

"Fools,  all  of  you,"  said  a  gross  voice  behind 
them;  "we're  all  blind.  The  lamps  have  gone 
out." 

"The  lamps — but  why?  wKere?"  cried  Buck, 
turning  furiously  in  the  darkness.  "How  are  we 
to  get  on?  How  are  we  to  chase  the  enemy? 
Where  have  they  gone?" 

205 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

"The  enemy  went — "  said  the  rough  voice 
behind,  and  then  stopped,  doubtfully. 

"Where?"  shouted  Buck,  stamping  like  a  mad- 
man. 

"They  went,"  said  the  gruff  voice,  "past  the 
Gas  Works,  and  they've  used  their  chance." 

"Great  God !"  thundered  Buck,  and  snatched  at 
his  revolver;  "do  you  mean  they've  turned 
out—" 

But  almost  before  he  had  spoken  the  words,  he 
was  hurled  like  a  stone  from  a  catapult  into  the 
midst  of  his  own  men. 

"Notting  Hill!  Netting  Hill!"  cried  frightful 
voices  out  of  the  darkness,  and  they  seemed 
to  come  from  all  sides,  for  the  men  of  North 
Kensington,  unacquainted  with  the  road,  had 
lost  all  their  bearings  in  the  black  world  of  blind- 
ness. 

"Notting  Hill !  Notting  Hill !"  cried  the  invis- 
ible people,  and  the  invaders  were  hewn  down 
horribly  with  black  steel,  with  steel  that  gave  no 
glint  against  any  light. 

Buck,  though  badly  maimed  with  the  blow  of 
a  halberd,  kept  an  angry  but  splendid  sanity.  He 
groped  madly  for  the  wall  and  found  it.  Strug- 
gling with  crawling  fingers  along  it,  he  found 
a  side  opening  and  retreated  into  it  with  the 

206 


remnants  of  his  men.  Their  adventures  dur- 
ing that  prodigious  night  are  not  to  be  de- 
scribed. They  did  not  know  whether  they  were 
going  towards  or  away  from  the  enemy.  Not 
knowing  where  they  themselves  were,  or  where 
their  opponents  were,  it  was  mere  irony  to  ask 
where  was  the  rest  of  their  army.  For  a  thing 
had  descended  upon  them  which  London  does  not 
know — darkness,  which  was  before  the  stars  were 
made,  and  they  were  as  much  lost  in  it  as  if  they 
had  been  made  before  the  stars.  Every  now  and 
then,  as  those  frightful  hours  wore  on,  they  buf- 
fetted  in  the  darkness  against  living  men,  who 
struck  at  them  and  at  whom  they  struck,  with 
an  idiot  fury.  When  at  last  the  grey  dawn  came, 
they  found  they  had  wandered  back  to  the  edge 
of  the  Uxbridge  Road.  They  found  that  in  those 
horrible  eyeless  encounters,  the  North  Kensing- 
tons and  the  Bayswaters  and  the  West  Kensing- 
tons had  again  and  again  met  and  butchered  each 
other,  and  they  heard  that  Adam  Wayne  was  bar- 
ricaded in  Pump  Street. 


207 


CHAPTER    II — The  Correspondent  of  the 
Court  Journal 

JOURNALISM  had  become  like  most  other 
such  things  in  England,  under  the  cautious 
government  and  philosophy  represented 
by  James  Barker,  somewhat  sleepy  and  much 
diminished  in  importance.  This  was  partly  due 
to  the  disappearance  of  party  government  and 
public  speaking,  partly  to  the  compromise  or 
dead-lock  which  had  made  foreign  wars  im- 
possible, but  mostly,  of  course,  to  the  temper 
of  the  whole  nation,  which  was  that  of  a 
people  in  a  kind  of  back-water.  Perhaps 
the  most  well-known  of  the  remaining  news- 
papers was  the  Court  Journal,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  a  dusty  but  genteel-looking  office  just 
out  of  Kensington  High  Street.  For  when 
all  the  papers  of  a  people  have  been  for  years 
growing  more  and  more  dim  and  decorous 
and  optimistic,  the  dimmest  and  most  de- 
corous and  most  optimistic  is  very  likely 
to  win.  In  the  journalistic  competition  which 
was  still  going  on  at  the  beginning  of  the 
twentieth  century,  the  final  victor  was  the 
Court  Journal. 

For   some  mysterious   reason   the   King  had 
208 


The  Correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal 

a  great  affection  for  hanging  about  in  the  Court 
Journal  office,  smoking  a  morning  cigarette  and 
looking  over  files.  Like  all  ingrainedly  idle  men, 
he  was  very  fond  of  lounging  and  chatting  in 
places  where  other  people  were  doing  work.  But 
one  would  have  thought  that,  even  in  the  prosaic 
England  of  his  day,  he  might  have  found  a  more 
bustling  centre. 

On  this  particular  morning,  however,  he  came 
out  of  Kensington  Palace  with  a  more  alert  step 
and  a  busier  air  than  usual.  He  wore  an  extrava- 
gantly long  frock-coat,  a  pale-green  waistcoat, 
a  very  full  and  degage  black  tie,  and  curious 
yellow  gloves.  This  was  his  uniform  as  Colo- 
nel of  a  regiment  of  his  own  creation,  the  ist 
Decadents  Green.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to 
see  him  drilling  them.  He  walked  quickly 
across  the  Park  and  the  High  Street,  lighting  his 
cigarette  as  he  went,  and  flung  open  the  door  of 
the  Court  Journal  office. 

"You've  heard  the  news,  Pally — you've  heard 
the  news  ?"  he  said. 

The  Editor's  name  was  Hoskins,  but  the  King 
called  him  Pally,  which  was  an  abbreviation  of 
Paladium  of  our  Liberties. 

"Well,  your  Majesty,"  said  Hoskins,  slowly 
(he  was  a  worried,  gentlemanly  looking  person, 
with  a  wandering  brown  beard) — "well,  your 

209 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Majesty,  I  have  heard  rather  curious  things, 
but  I—" 

"You'll  hear  more  of  them,"  said  the  King,  dan- 
cing a  few  steps  of  a  kind  of  negro  shuffle.  "You'll 
hear  more  of  them,  my  blood-and-thunder  tribune. 
Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  for 
you?" 

"No,  your  Majesty,"  replied  the  Paladium, 
vaguely. 

"I'm  going  to  put  your  paper  on  strong, 
dashing,  enterprising  lines,"  said  the  King. 
"Now,  where  are  your  posters  of  last  night's 
defeat?" 

"I  did  not  propose,  your  Majesty,"  said  the 
Editor,  "to  have  any  posters  exactly — " 

"Paper,  paper!"  cried  the  King,  wildly; 
"bring  me  paper  as  big  as  a  house.  I'll  do  you 
posters.  Stop,  I  must  take  my  coat  off."  He 
began  removing  that  garment  with  an  air  of 
set  intensity,  flung  it  playfully  at  Mr.  Hoskins' 
head,  entirely  enveloping  him,  and  looked  at 
himself  in  the  glass.  "The  coat  off,"  he 
said,  "and  hat  on.  That  looks  like  a  sub- 
editor. It  is  indeed  the  very  essence  of 
sub-editing.  Well,"  he  continued,  turning 
round  abruptly,  "come  along  with  that 
paper." 

The  Paladium  had  only  just  extricated  himself 

210 


The  Correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal 

reverently  from  the  folds  of  the  King's  frock- 
coat,  and  said  bewildered — 

"I  am  afraid,  your  Majesty — " 

"Oh,  you've  got  no  enterprise,"  said  Auberon. 
"What's  that  roll  in  the  corner?  Wall-paper? 
Decorations  for  your  private  residence?  Art  in 
the  home,  Pally?  Fling  it  over  here,  and  I'll 
paint  such  posters  on  the  back  of  it  that  when 
you  put  it  up  in  your  drawing-room  you'll  paste 
the  original  pattern  against  the  wall."  And 
the  King  unrolled  the  wall-paper,  spreading 
it  over  the  whole  floor.  "Now  give  me  the  scis- 
sors," he  cried,  and  took  them  himself  before  the 
other  could  stir. 

He  slit  the  paper  into  about  five  pieces,  each 
nearly  as  big  as  a  door.  Then  he  took  a  big  blue 
pencil  and  went  down  on  his  knees  on  the  dusty 
oil-cloth,  and  began  to  write  on  them,  in  huge 
letters — 

"FROM  THE  FRONT. 

GENERAL  BUCK  DEFEATED. 

DARKNESS,  DANGER,  AND  DEATH. 

WAYNE  SAID  TO  BE  IN  PUMP  STREET. 

FEELING  IN  THE  CITY." 

He  contemplated  it  for  some  time,  wkh  his  Head 
on  one  side,  and  got  up,  with  a  sigh. 

211 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

"Not  quite  intense  enough,"  he  said — "not 
alarming.  I  want  the  Court  Journal  to  be  feared 
as  well  as  loved.  Let's  try  something  more  hard- 
hitting." And  he  went  down  on  his  knees  again. 
After  sucking  the  blue  pencil  for  some  time,  he 
began  writing  again  busily.  "How  will  this  do  ?" 
he  said — 

"WAYNE'S  WONDERFUL  VICTORY." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  looking  up  appealingly, 
and  sucking  the  pencil — "I  suppose  we  couldn't 
say  Victory' — 'Wayne's  wonderful  wictory'? 
No,  no.  Refinement,  Pally,  refinement.  I 
have  it." 

"WAYNE  WINS. 

ASTOUNDING  FIGHT  IN  THE  DARK. 

The  gas-lamps  in  their  courses,  fought  against 
Buck." 

"(Nothing  like  our  fine  old  English  transla- 
tion. )  What  else  can  we  say  ?  Well,  anything  to 
annoy  old  Buck ;"  and  he  added,  thoughtfully,  in 
smaller  letters — 

"Rumoured  Court-martial  on  General  Buck." 

"Those  will  do  for  the  present,"  he  said,  and 
turned  them  both  face  downwards.  "Paste, 
please." 

213 


The  Correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal 

The  Paladium,  with  an  air  of  great  terror, 
brought  the  paste  out  of  an  inner  room. 

The  King  slabbed  it  on  with  the  enjoyment  of 
a  child  messing  with  treacle.  Then  taking  one 
of  his  huge  compositions  fluttering  in  each 
hand,  he  ran  outside,  and  began  pasting  them 
up  in  prominent  positions  over  the  front  of  the 
office. 

"And  now,"  said  Auberon,  entering  again 
with  undiminished  vivacity — "now  for  the  leading 
article." 

He  picked  up  another  of  the  large  strips  of 
wall-paper,  and,  laying  it  across  a  desk,  pulled 
out  a  fountain-pen  and  began  writing  with 
feverish  intensity,  reading  clauses  and  fragments 
aloud  to  himself,  and  rolling  them  on  his  tongue 
like  wine,  to  see  if  they  had  the  pure  journalistic 
flavour. 

"The  news  of  the  disaster  to  our  forces  in 
Notting  Hill,  awful  as  it  is,  awful  as  it  is — (no, 
distressing  as  it  is),  may  do  some  good  if  it  draws 
attention  to  the  what's-his-name  inefficiency 
(scandalous  inefficiency,  of  course)  of  the  Gov- 
ernment's preparations.  In  our  present  state 
of  information,  it  would  be  premature  (what 
a  jolly  word!) — it  would  be  premature  to  cast 
any  reflections  upon  the  conduct  of  General 
Buck,  whose  services  upon  so  many  stricken 

213 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

fields  (ha,  ha!),  and  whose  honourable  scars 
and  laurels,  give  him  a  right  to  have  judgment 
upon  him  at  least  suspended.  But  there  is  one 
matter  on  which  we  must  speak  plainly.  We 
have  been  silent  on  it  too  long,  from  feelings, 
perhaps  of  mistaken  caution,  perhaps  of  mis- 
taken loyalty.  This  situation  would  never  have 
arisen  but  for  what  we  can  only  call  the  inde- 
fensible conduct  of  the  King.  It  pains  us  to  say 
such  things,  but,  speaking  as  we  do  in  the 
public  interests  (I  plagiarise  from  Barker's 
famous  epigram),  we  shall  not  shrink  because  of 
the  distress  we  may  cause  to  any  individual, 
even  the  most  exalted.  At  this  crucial  moment 
of  our  country,  the  voice  of  the  People  demands 
with  a  single  tongue,  'Where  is  the  King?' 
What  is  he  doing  while  his  subjects  tear  each 
other  in  pieces  in  the  streets  of  a  great  city? 
Are  his  amusements  and  his  dissipations  (of 
which  we  cannot  pretend  to  be  ignorant)  so 
engrossing  that  he  can  spare  no  thought  for  a 
perishing  nation  ?  It  is  with  a  deep  sense  of  our 
responsibility  that  we  warn  that  exalted  person 
that  neither  his  great  position  nor  his  incom- 
parable talents  will  save  him  in  the  hour  of 
delirium  from  the  fate  of  all  those  who,  in  the 
madness  of  luxury  or  tyranny,  have  met  the 
English  people  in  the  rare  day  of  its  wrath." 

214 


"I  am  now,"  said  the  King,  "going  to  write 
an  account  of  the  battle  by  an  eye-witness." 
And  he  picked  up  a  fourth  sheet  of  wall-paper. 
Almost  at  the  same  moment  Buck  strode 
quickly  into  the  office.  He  had  a  bandage  round 
his  head. 

"I  was  told,"  he  said  with  his  usual  gruff  civ- 
ility, "that  your  Majesty  was  here." 

"And  of  all  things  on  earth,"  cried  the  King, 
with  delight,  "here  is  an  eye-witness!  An  eye- 
witness who,  I  regret  to  observe,  has  at  present 
only  one  eye  to  witness  with.  Can  you  write 
us  the  special  article,  Buck?  Have  you  a  rich 
style?" 

Buck,  with  a  self-restraint  which  almost 
approached  politeness,  took  no  notice  whatever  of 
the  King's  maddening  geniality. 

"I  took  the  liberty,  your  Majesty,"  he  said 
shortly,  "of  asking  Mr.  Barker  to  come  here 
also." 

As  he  spoke,  indeed,  Barker  came  swinging 
into  the  office,  with  his  usual  air  of  hurry. 

"What  is  happening  now?"  asked  Buck,  turn- 
ing to  him  with  a  kind  of  relief. 

"Fighting  still  going  on,"  said  Barker. 
"The  four  hundred  from  West  Kensington 
were  hardly  touched  last  night.  They  hardly 
got  near  the  place.  Poor  Wilson's  Bayswater 

215 


The  Napoleon  of  Netting  Hill 

men  got  cut  about,  though.  They  fought  con- 
foundedly well.  They  took  Pump  Street 
once.  What  mad  things  do  happen  in  the 
world.  To  think  that  of  all  of  us  it  should  be 
little  Wilson  with  the  red  whiskers  who  came  out 
best." 

The  King  made  a  note  on  his  paper — 

"Romantic  Conduct  of  Mr.  Wilson" 

"Yes,"  said  Buck,  "it  makes  one  a  bit  less  proud 
of  one's  'hV  " 

The  King  suddenly  folded  or  crumpled  up  the 
paper,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"I  have  an  idea,"  he  said.  "I  will  be  an  eye- 
witness. I  will  write  you  such  letters  from 
the  Front  as  will  be  more  gorgeous  than  the 
real  thing.  Give  me  my  coat,  Paladium.  I 
entered  this  room  a  mere  King  of  England.  I 
leave  it,  Special  War  Correspondent  of  the  Court 
Journal  It  is  useless  to  stop  me,  Pally ;  it  is  vain 
to  cling  to  my  knees,  Buck ;  it  is  hopeless,  Barker, 
to  weep  upon  my  neck.  'When  duty  calls' — the 
remainder  of  the  sentiment  escapes  me.  You  will 
receive  my  first  article  this  evening  by  the  eight 
o'clock  post." 

And,  running  out  of  the  ofHce,  he  jumped 
upon  a  blue  Bayswater  omnibus  that  went 
swinging  by. 

216 


"Well,"  said  Barker,  gloomily,  "well." 

"Barker,"  said  Buck,  "business  may  be  lower 
than  politics,  but  war  is,  as  I  discovered  last 
night,  a  long  sight  more  like  business.  You 
politicians  are  such  ingrained  demagogues  that 
even  when  you  have  a  despotism  you  think  of 
nothing  but  public  opinion.  So  you  learn  to  tack 
and  run,  and  are  afraid  of  the  first  breeze.  Now 
we  stick  to  a  thing  and  get  it.  And  our  mistakes 
help  us.  Look  here !  at  this  moment  we've  beaten 
Wayne." 

"Beaten  Wayne,"  repeated  Barker. 

"Why  the  dickens  not?"  cried  the  other, 
flinging  out  his  hands.  "Look  here.  I  said  last 
night  that  we  had  them  by  holding  the 
nine  entrances.  Well,  I  was  wrong.  We 
should  have  had  them  but  for  a  singular  event 
— the  lamps  went  out.  But  for  that  it  was 
certain.  Has  it  occurred  to  you,  my  bril- 
liant Barker,  that  another  singular  event  has  hap- 
pened since  that  singular  event  of  the  lamps  going 
out?" 

"What  event?"  asked  Barker. 

"By  an  astounding  coincidence,  the  sun  has 
risen,"  cried  out  Buck,  with  a  savage  air  of 
patience.  "Why  the  hell  aren't  we  holding  all 
those  approaches  now,  and  passing  in  on  them 

again?     It  should  have  been  done  at   sunrise. 

217 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Sill 

The  confounded  doctor  wouldn't  let  me  go  out. 
You  were  in  command." 

Barker  smiled  grimly. 

"It  is  a  gratification  to  me,  my  dear  Buck, 
to  be  able  to  say  that  we  anticipated  your 
suggestions  precisely.  We  went  as  early  as 
possible  to  reconnoitre  the  nine  entrances. 
Unfortunately,  while  we  were  fighting  each 
other  in  the  dark,  like  a  lot  of  drunken 
navvies,  Mr.  Wayne's  friends  were  working 
very  hard  indeed.  Three  hundred  yards  from 
Pump  Street,  at  every  one  of  those  entrances, 
there  is  a  barricade  nearly  as  high  as  the  houses. 
They  were  finishing  the  last,  in  Pembridge 
Road,  when  we  arrived.  Our  mistakes,"  he  cried 
bitterly,  and  flung  his  cigarette  on  the  ground. 
"It  is  not  we  who  learn  from  them." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and 
Barker  lay  back  wearily  in  a  chair.  The  office 
clock  ticked  exactly  in  the  stillness. 

At  length  Barker  said  suddenly — 

"Buck,  does  it  ever  cross  your  mind  what  this 
is  all  about?  The  Hammersmith  to  Maida 
Vale  thoroughfare  was  an  uncommonly  good 
speculation.  You  and  I  hoped  a  great  deal 
from  it.  But  is  it  worth  it?  It  will  cost  us 
thousands  to  crush  this  ridiculous  riot.  Suppose 
we  let  it  alone?" 

218 


The  Correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal 

"And  be  thrashed  in  public  by  a  red-haired 
madman  whom  any  two  doctors  would  lock  up?" 
cried  out  Buck,  starting  to  his  feet.  "What  do 
you  propose  to  do,  Mr.  Barker?  To  apologise 
to  the  admirable  Mr.  Wayne?  To  kneel  to  the 
Charter  of  the  Cities?  To  clasp  to  your 
bosom  the  flag  of  the  Red  Lion?  To  kiss  in 
succession  every  sacred  lamp-post  that  saved 
Netting  Hill?  No,  by  God!  My  men  fought 
jolly  well — they  were  beaten  by  a  trick.  And 
they'll  fight  again." 

"Buck,"  said  Barker,  "I  always  admired  you. 
And  you  were  quite  right  in  what  you  said  the 
other  day." 

"In  what?" 

"In  saying,"  said  Barker,  rising  quietly, 
"that  we  had  all  got  into  Adam  Wayne's 
atmosphere  and  out  of  our  own.  My  friend, 
the  whole  territorial  kingdom  of  Adam  Wayne 
extends  to  about  nine  streets,  with  barricades  at 
the  end  of  them.  But  the  spiritual  kingdom  of 
Adam  Wayne  extends,  God  knows  where — 
it  extends  to  this  office  at  any  rate.  The  red- 
haired  madman  whom  any  two  doctors  would 
lock  up  is  filling  this  room  with  his  roar- 
ing, unreasonable  soul.  And  it  was  the  red- 
haired  madman  who  said  the  last  word  you 
spoke." 

219 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

Buck  walked  to  the  window  without  replying. 
"You  understand,  of  course,"  he  said  at  last, 
"I  do  not  dream  of  giving  in." 

The  King,  meanwhile,  was  rattling  along  on 
the  top  of  his  blue  omnibus.  The  traffic  of 
London  as  a  whole  had  not,  of  course,  been 
greatly  disturbed  by  these  events,  for  the  affair 
was  treated  as  a  Notting  Hill  riot,  and  that 
area  was  marked  off  as  if  it  had  been  in  the 
hands  of  a  gang  of  recognised  rioters.  The 
blue  omnibuses  simply  went  round  as  they 
would  have  done  if  a  road  were  being 
mended,  and  the  omnibus  on  which  the  cor- 
respondent of  the  Court  Journal  was  sitting 
swept  round  the  corner  of  Queen's  Road, 
Bayswater. 

The  King  was  alone  on  the  top  of  the  vehicle, 
and  was  enjoying  the  speed  at  which  it  was 
going. 

"Forward,  my  beauty,  my  Arab,"  he  said, 
patting  the  omnibus  encouragingly,  "fleetest  of 
all  thy  bounding  tribe.  Are  thy  relations  with 
thy  driver,  I  wonder,  those  of  the  Bedouin  and 
his  steed?  Does  he  sleep  side  by  side  with 
thee— " 

His  meditations  were  broken  by  a  sudden 
and  jarring  stoppage.  Looking  over  the  edge, 

220 


KING   AUBERON   DESCENDED   FROM  THE  OMNIBUS  WITH   DIGNITY 


The  Correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal 

he  saw  that  the  heads  of  the  horses  were  being 
held  by  men  in  the  uniform  of  Wayne's  army, 
and  heard  the  voice  of  an  officer  calling  out 
orders. 

King  Auberon  descended  from  the  omnibus 
with  dignity.  The  guard  or  picket  of  red  hal- 
berdiers who  had  stopped  the  vehicle  did  not 
number  more  than  twenty,  and  they  were  under 
the  command  of  a  short,  dark,  clever-looking 
young  man,  conspicuous  among  the  rest  as 
being  clad  in  an  ordinary  frock-coat,  but  girt 
round  the  waist  with  a  red  sash  and  a  long 
seventeenth-century  sword.  A  shiny  silk  hat 
and  spectacles  completed  the  outfit  in  a  pleasing 
manner. 

"To  whom  have  I  the  honour  of  speaking?" 
said  the  King,  endeavouring  to  look  like 
Charles  L,  in  spite  of  personal  difficulties. 

The  dark  man  in  spectacles  lifted  his  hat  with 
equal  gravity. 

"My  name  is  Bowles,"  he  said.  "I  am  a 
chemist.  I  am  also  a  captain  of  O  company  of 
the  army  of  Netting  Hill.  I  am  distressed  at 
having  to  incommode  you  by  stopping  the 
omnibus,  but  this  area  is  covered  by  our  procla- 
mation, and  we  intercept  all  traffic.  May  I 
ask  to  whom  I  have  the  honour — Why,  good 
gracious,  I  beg  your  Majesty's  pardon.  I  am 

221 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

quite  overwhelmed  at  finding  myself  concerned 
with  the  King." 

Auberon  put  up  his  hands  with  indescribable 
grandeur. 

"Not  with  the  King,"  he  said;  "with  the  special 
war  correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal." 

"I  beg  your  Majesty's  pardon,"  began  Mr. 
Bowles,  doubtfully. 

"Do  you  call  me  Majesty?  I  repeat,"  said 
Auberon  firmly,  "I  am  a  representative  of 
the  press.  I  have  chosen,  with  a  deep  sense 
of  responsibility,  the  name  of  Pinker.  I 
should  desire  a  veil  to  be  drawn  over  the 
past." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bowles,  with  an 
air  of  submission,  "in  our  eyes  the  sanctity  of 
the  press  is  at  least  as  great  as  that  of  the 
throne.  We  desire  nothing  better  than  that 
our  wrongs  and  our  glories  should  be  widely 
known.  May  I  ask,  Mr.  Pinker,  if  you  have  any 
objection  to  being  presented  to  the  Provost  and 
to  General  Turnbull?" 

"The  Provost  I  have  had  the  honour  of 
meeting,"  said  Auberon,  easily.  "We  old 
journalists,  you  know,  meet  everybody.  I 
should  be  most  delighted  to  have  the  same 
honour  again.  General  Turnbull,  also,  it  would 
be  a  gratification  to  know.  The  younger  men 

222 


The  Correspondent  of  the  Court  Journal 

are  so  interesting.  We  of  the  old  Fleet  Street 
gang  lose  touch  with  them." 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  step  this  way  ?"  said 
the  leader  of  O  company. 

"I  am  always  good,"  said  Mr.  Pinker.  "Lead 
on." 


223 


CHAPTER    III — The  Great  Army  of  South 
Kensington 

THE  article  from  the  special  correspond- 
ent of  the  Court  Journal  arrived  in 
due  course,  written  on  very  coarse 
copy-paper  in  the  King's  arabesque  of  hand- 
writing, in  which  three  words  filled  a  page, 
and  yet  were  illegible.  Moreover,  the  con- 
tribution was  the  more  perplexing  at  first 
as  it  opened  with  a  succession  of  erased  para- 
graphs. The  writer  appeared  to  have  attempted 
the  article  once  or  twice  in  several  jour- 
nalistic styles.  At  the  side  of  one  experiment 
was  written,  "Try  American  style,"  and  the 
fragment  began — 

"The  King  must  go.  We  want  gritty  men. 
Flapdoodle  is  all  very  ...  ;"  and  then  broke 
off,  followed  by  the  note,  "Good  sound  journalism 
safer.  Try  it." 

The  experiment  in  good  sound  journalism 
appeared  to  begin — 

"The  greatest  of  English  poets  has  said  that  a 
rose  by  any  .  .  ." 

This  also  stopped  abruptly.  The  next  anno- 
tation at  the  side  was  almost  undecipherable,  but 
seemed  to  be  something  like — 

224 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

"How  about  old  Steevens  and  the  mot  juste? 
Kg.  .  ." 

"Morning  winked  a  little  wearily  at  me  over 
the  curt  edge  of  Campden  Hill  and  its  houses 
with  their  sharp  shadows.  Under  the  abrupt 
black  cardboard  of  the  outline,  it  took  some 
little  time  to  detect  colours;  but  at  length  I  saw 
a  brownish  yellow  shifting  in  the  obscurity,  and 
I  knew  that  it  was  the  guard  of  Swindon's  West 
Kensington  army.  They  are  being  held  as  a 
reserve,  and  lining  the  whole  ridge  above  the 
Bayswater  Road.  Their  camp  and  their  main 
force  is  under  the  great  water  works  tower  on 
Campden  Hill.  I  forgot  to  say  that  the  water 
works  tower  looked  swart. 

"As  I  passed  them  and  came  over  the  curve 
of  Silver  Street,  I  saw  the  blue  cloudy  masses  of 
Barker's  men  blocking  the  entrance  to  the  high- 
road like  a  sapphire  smoke  (good).  The  dispo- 
sition of  the  allied  troops,  under  the  general 
management  of  Mr.  Wilson,  appears  to  be  as 
follows, — The  Yellow  Army  (if  I  may  so 
describe  the  West  Kensingtonians)  lies,  as  I 
have  said,  in  a  strip  along  the  ridge;  its  furthest 
point  westward  being  the  west  side  of  Camp- 
den Hill  Road,  its  furthest  point  eastward 
the  beginning  of  Kensington  Gardens.  The 
Green  Army  of  Wilson  lines  the  Notting  Hill 

225 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

High  Road  itself  from  Queen's  Road  to  the  cor- 
ner of  Pembridge  Road,  curving  round  the 
latter,  and  extending  some  three  hundred  yards 
up  towards  Westbourne  Grove.  Westbourne 
Grove  itself  is  occupied  by  Barker  of  South  Ken- 
sington. The  fourth  side  of  this  rough  square, 
the  Queen's  Road  side,  is  held  by  some  of  Buck's 
Purple  warriors. 

"The  whole  resembles  some  ancient  and  dainty 
Dutch  flower-bed.  Along  the  crest  of  Campden 
Hill  lie  the  golden  crocuses  of  West  Kensington. 
They  are,  as  it  were,  the  first  fiery  fringe  of 
the  whole.  Northward  lies  our  hyacinth 
Barker,  with  all  his  blue  hyacinths.  Round  to 
the  south-west  run  the  green  rushes  of  Wilson 
of  Bayswater,  and  a  line  of  violet  irises  (aptly 
symbolised  by  Mr.  Buck)  complete  the  whole. 
The  argent  exterior  ...  (I  am  losing  the  style. 
I  should  have  said  '  Curving  with  a  whisk' 
instead  of  merely  'Curving.'  Also  I  should 
have  called  the  hyacinths  'sudden.'  I  cannot  keep 
this  up.  War  is  too  rapid  for  this  style  of 
writing.  Please  ask  the  office-boy  to  insert  mots 
justes.). 

"The  truth  is  that  there  is  nothing  to  report. 
That  commonplace  element  which  is  always 
ready  to  devour  all  beautiful  things  (as  the 
Black  Pig  in  the  Irish  Mythology  will  finally 

226 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

devour  the  stars  and  gods)  ;  that  commonplace 
element,  as  I  say,  has  in  its  Black  Piggish  way 
devoured  finally  the  chances  of  any  romance  in 
this  affair;  that  which  once  consisted  of  absurd 
but  thrilling  combats  in  the  streets,  has  degen- 
erated into  something  which  is  the  very  prose  of 
warfare — it  has  degenerated  into  a  siege.  A 
siege  may  be  defined  as  a  peace  plus  the 
inconvenience  of  war.  Of  course  Wayne  can- 
not hold  out.  There  is  no  more  chance  of 
help  from  anywhere  else  than  of  ships  from  the 
moon.  And  if  old  Wayne  had  stocked  his 
street  with  tinned  meats  till  all  his  garrison 
had  to  sit  on  them,  he  couldn't  hold  out  for  more 
than  a  month  or  two.  As  a  matter  of  melan- 
choly fact  he  has  done  something  rather  like 
this.  He  has  stocked  his  street  with  food 
until  there  must  be  uncommonly  little  room  to 
turn  round.  But  what  is  the  good  ?  To  hold  out 
for  all  that  time  and  then  to  give  in  of  neces- 
sity, what  does  it  mean?  It  means  waiting  until 
your  victories  are  forgotten  and  then  taking  the 
trouble  to  be  defeated.  I  cannot  understand  how 
Wayne  can  be  so  inartistic. 

"And  how  odd  it  is  that  one  views  a  thing 
quite  differently  when  one  knows  it  is  defeated. 
I  always  thought  Wayne  was  rather  fine.  But 

now,  when  I  know  that  he  is  done  for,  there  seems 

227 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

to  be  nothing  else  but  Wayne.  All  the  streets 
seem  to  point  at  him,  all  the  chimneys  seem  to 
lean  towards  him.  I  suppose  it  is  a  mor- 
bid feeling;  but  Pump  Street  seems  to  be  the 
only  part  of  London  that  I  feel  physically.  I 
suppose,  I  say,  that  it  is  morbid.  I  suppose  it  is 
exactly  how  a  man  feels  about  his  heart  when  his 
heart  is  weak.  'Pump  Street' — the  heart  is  a 
pump.  And  I  am  drivelling. 

"Our  finest  leader  at  the  front  is  beyond  all 
question,  General  Wilson.  He  has  adopted 
alone  among  the  other  Provosts  the  uniform  of 
his  own  halberdiers,  although  that  fine  old  six- 
teenth-century garb  was  not  originally  intended  to 
go  with  red  side-whiskers.  It  was  he  who,  against 
a  most  admirable  and  desperate  defence,  broke 
last  night  into  Pump  Street  and  held  it  for  at 
least  half  an  hour.  He  was  afterwards  expelled 
from  it  by  General  Turnbull,  of  Notting  Hill, 
but  only  after  desperate  fighting  and  the  sudden 
descent  of  that  terrible  darkness  which  proved  so 
much  more  fatal  to  the  forces  of  General  Buck  and 
General  Swindon. 

"Provost  Wayne  himself,  with  whom  I  had, 
with  great  good  fortune,  a  most  interesting 
interview,  bore  the  most  eloquent  testimony  to 
the  conduct  of  General  Wilson  and  his  men.  His 
precise  words  are  as  follows: — 'I  have  bought 

228 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

sweets  at  his  funny  little  shop  when  I  was  four 
years  old,  and  ever  since.  I  never  noticed 
anything,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  except  that 
he  talked  through  his  nose,  and  didn't  wash 
himself  particularly.  And  he  came  over  our  bar- 
ricade like  a  devil  from  hell.'  I  repeated  this 
speech  to  General  Wilson  himself,  with  some 
delicate  improvements,  and  he  seemed  pleased 
with  it.  He  does  not,  however,  seem  pleased 
with  anything  so  much  just  now  as  he  is  with 
the  wearing  of  a  sword.  I  have  it  from  the 
front  on  the  best  authority  that  General 
Wilson  was  not  completely  shaved  yesterday.  It 
is  believed  in  military  circles  that  he  is  growing  a 
moustache.  .  .  . 

"As  I  have  said,  there  is  nothing  to  report. 
I  walk  wearily  to  the  pillar-box  at  the  corner 
of  Pembridge  Road  to  post  my  copy.  Nothing 
whatever  has  happened,  except  the  preparations 
for  a  particularly  long  and  feeble  siege,  during 
which  I  trust  I  shall  not  be  required  to  be  at 
the  Front.  As  I  glance  up  Pembridge  Road  in 
the  growing  dusk,  the  aspect  of  that  road 
reminds  me  that  there  is  one  note  worth  adding. 
General  Buck  has  suggested,  with  characteristic 
acumen,  to  General  Wilson,  that  in  order  to 
obviate  the  possibility  of  such  a  catastrophe 
as  overwhelmed  the  allied  forces  in  the  last 

229 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

advance  on  Notting  Hill  (the  catastrophe,  I 
mean,  of  the  extinguished  lamps),  that  each 
soldier  should  have  a  lighted  lantern  round  his 
neck.  This  is  one  of  the  things  which  I  really 
admire  about  General  Buck.  He  possesses 
what  people  used  to  mean  by  'the  humility  of 
the  man  of  science,'  that  is,  he  learns  steadily 
from  his  mistakes.  Wayne  may  score  off  him  in 
some  other  way,  but  not  in  that  way.  The  lan- 
terns look  like  fairy  lights  as  they  curve  round 
the  end  of  Pembridge  Road. 

"Later. — I  write  with  some  difficulty,  because 
the  blood  will  run  down  my  face  and  make  pat- 
terns on  the  paper.  Blood  is  a  very  beautiful 
thing;  that  is  why  it  is  concealed.  If  you 
ask  me  why  blood  runs  down  my  face,  I  can 
only  reply  that  I  was  kicked  by  a  horse.  If 
you  ask  me  what  horse,  I  can  reply  with  some 
pride  that  it  was  a  war-horse.  If  you  ask  me  how 
a  war-horse  came  on  the  scene  in  our  simple 
pedestrian  warfare,  I  am  reduced  to  the  necessity, 
so  painful  to  a  special  correspondent,  of  recount- 
ing my  experiences. 

"I  was,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  very  act  of  post- 
ing my  copy  at  the  pillar-box,  and  of  glancing 
as  I  did  so  up  the  glittering  curve  of  Pem- 
bridge Road,  studded  with  the  lights  of  Wil- 

230 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

son's  men.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  pause 
to  examine  the  matter,  but  I  had  a  fancy 
that  the  line  of  lights,  where  it  melted  into  the 
indistinct  brown  twilight,  was  more  indistinct  than 
usual.  I  was  almost  certain  that  in  a  certain 
stretch  of  the  road  where  there  had  been  five 
lights  there  were  now  only  four.  I  strained 
my  eyes;  I  counted  them  again,  and  there 
were  only  three.  A  moment  after  there  were 
only  two;  an  instant  after  only  one;  and  an 
instant  after  that  the  lanterns  near  to  me 
swung  like  jangled  bells,  as  if  struck  suddenly. 
They  flared  and  fell;  and  for  the  moment  the 
fall  of  them  was  like  the  fall  of  the  sun  and  stars 
out  of  heaven.  It  left  everything  in  a  primal 
blindness.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  road  was 
not  yet  legitimately  dark.  There  were  still 
red  rays  of  a  sunset  in  the  sky,  and  the 
brown  gloaming  was  still  warmed,  as  it  were, 
with  a  feeling  as  of  firelight.  But  for  three 
seconds  after  the  lanterns  swung  and  sank,  I 
saw  in  front  of  me  a  blackness  block- 
ing the  sky.  And  with  the  fourth  second  I 
knew  that  this  blackness  which  blocked  the  sky 
was  a  man  on  a  great  horse;  and  I  was 
trampled  and  tossed  aside  as  a  swirl  of  horse- 
men swept  round  the  corner.  As  they  turned 
I  saw  that  they  were  not  black  but  scarlet; 

231 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

they  were  a  sortie  of  the  besieged,  Wayne  riding 
ahead. 

"I  lifted  myself  from  the  gutter,  blinded  with 
blood  from  a  very  slight  skin-wound,  and, 
queerly  enough,  not  caring  either  for  the  blind- 
ness or  for  the  slightness  of  the  wound.  For 
one  mortal  minute  after  that  amazing  cavalcade 
had  spun  past,  there  was  dead  stillness  on  the 
empty  road.  And  then  came  Barker  and  all  his 
halberdiers  running  like  devils  in  the  track  of 
them.  It  had  been  their  business  to  guard  the 
gate  by  which  the  sortie  had  broken  out ;  but  they 
had  not  reckoned,  and  small  blame  to  them,  on 
cavalry.  As  it  was,  Barker  and  his  men  made  a 
perfectly  splendid  run  after  them,  almost  catching 
Wayne's  horses  by  the  tails. 

"Nobody  can  understand  the  sortie.  It  con- 
sists only  of  a  small  number  of  Wayne's 
garrison.  Turnbull  himself,  with  the  vast  mass 
of  it,  is  undoubtedly  still  barricaded  in  Pump 
Street.  Sorties  of  this  kind  are  natural  enough 
in  the  majority  of  historical  sieges,  such  as 
the  siege  of  Paris  in  1870,  because  in  such 
cases  the  besieged  are  certain  of  some  support 
outside.  But  what  can  be  the  object  of  it 
in  this  case?  Wayne  knows  (or  if  he  is  too 
mad  to  know  anything,  at  least  Turnbull 
knows)  that  there  is  not,  and  never  has  been, 

232 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

the  smallest  chance  of  support  for  him  outside; 
that  the  mass  of  the  sane  modern  inhabitants  of 
London  regard  his  farcical  patriotism  with  as 
much  contempt  as  they  do  the  original  idiotcy 
that  gave  it  birth — the  folly  of  our  miserable 
King.  What  Wayne  and  his  horsemen  are 
doing  nobody  can  even  conjecture.  The  general 
theory  round  here  is  that  he  is  simply  a  traitor, 
and  has  abandoned  the  besieged.  But  all  such 
larger  but  yet  more  soluble  riddles  are  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  one  small  but  un- 
answerable riddle:  Where  did  they  get  the 
horses  ? 

"Later. — I  have  heard  a  most  extraordinary 
account  of  the  origin  of  the  appearance  of  the 
horses.  It  appears  that  that  amazing  person, 
General  Turnbull,  who  is  now  ruling  Pump 
Street  in  the  absence  of  Wayne,  sent  out,  on 
the  morning  of  the  declaration  of  war,  a  vast 
number  of  little  boys  (or  cherubs  of  the  gutter, 
as  we  pressmen  say),  with  half-crowns  in  their 
pockets,  to  take  cabs  all  over  London.  No  less 
than  a  hundred  and  sixty  cabs  met  at  Pump 
Street;  were  commandeered  by  the  garrison. 
The  men  were  set  free,  the  cabs  used  to  make 
barricades,  and  the  horses  kept  in  Pump  Street, 
where  they  were  fed  and  exercised  for  several 

233 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

days,  until  they  were  sufficiently  rapid  and 
efficient  to  be  used  for  this  wild  ride  out  of 
the  town.  If  this  is  so,  and  I  have  it  on  the 
best  possible  authority,  the  method  of  the  sortie 
is  explained.  But  we  have  no  explanation  of 
its  object.  Just  as  Barker's  Blues  were  swing- 
ing round  the  corner  after  them,  they  were 
stopped,  but  not  by  an  enemy;  only  by  the 
voice  of  one  man,  and  he  a  friend.  Red 
Wilson  of  Bayswater  ran  alone  along  the  main 
road  like  a  madman,  waving  them  back  with 
a  halberd  snatched  from  a  sentinel.  He  was 
in  supreme  command,  and  Barker  stopped  at  the 
corner,  staring  and  bewildered.  We  could  hear 
Wilson's  voice  loud  and  distinct  out  of  the 
dusk,  so  that  it  seemed  strange  that  the  great 
voice  should  come  out  of  the  little  body.  'Halt, 
South  Kensington!  Guard  this  entry,  and  pre- 
vent them  returning.  I  will  pursue.  Forward, 
the  Green  Guards!' 

"A  wall  of  dark  blue  uniforms  and  a  wood 
of  pole-axes  was  between  me  and  Wilson,  for 
Barker's  men  blocked  the  mouth  of  the  road  in 
two  rigid  lines.  But  through  them  and  through 
the  dusk  I  could  hear  the  clear  orders  and  the 
clank  of  arms,  and  see  the  green  army  of  Wilson 
marching  by  towards  the  west.  They  were 
our  great  fighting-men.  Wilson  had  filled 

234 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

them  with  his  own  fire;  in  a  few  days  they  had 
become  veterans.  Each  of  them  wore  a  silver 
medal  of  a  pump,  to  boast  that  they  alone 
of  all  the  allied  armies  had  stood  victorious  in 
Pump  Street. 

"I  managed  to  slip  past  the  detachment  of 
Barker's  Blues,  who  are  guarding  the  end  of 
Pembridge  Road,  and  a  sharp  spell  of  running 
brought  me  to  the  tail  of  Wilson's  green  army 
as  it  swung  down  the  road  in  pursuit  of  the  flying 
Wayne.  The  dusk  had  deepened  into  almost 
total  darkness;  for  some  time  I  only  heard 
the  throb  of  the  marching  pace.  Then  sud- 
denly there  was  a  cry,  and  the  tall  fighting 
men  were  flung  back  on  me,  almost  crushing 
me,  and  again  the  lanterns  swung  and  jingled, 
and  the  cold  nozzles  of  great  horses  pushed 
into  the  press  of  us.  They  had  turned  and 
charged  us. 

"  'You  fools !'  came  the  voice  of  Wilson, 
cleaving  our  panic  with  a  splendid  cold 
anger.  'Don't  you  see?  the  horses  have  no 
riders  P 

"It  was  true.  We  were  being  plunged  at  by 
a  stampede  of  horses  with  empty  saddles. 
What  could  it  mean?  Had  Wayne  met  some 
of  our  men  and  been  defeated?  Or  had  he  flung 
these  horses  at  us  as  some  kind  of  ruse  or  mad 

235 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

new  mode  of  warfare,  such  as  he  seemed  bent  on 
inventing?  Or  did  he  and  his  men  want  to  get 
away  in  disguise?  Or  did  they  want  to  hide  in 
houses  somewhere? 

"Never  did  I  admire  any  man's  intellect 
(even  my  own)  so  much  as  I  did  Wilson's  at 
that  moment.  Without  a  word,  he  simply 
pointed  the  halberd  (which  he  still  grasped)  to 
the  southern  side  of  the  road.  As  you  know, 
the  streets  running  up  to  the  ridge  of  Campden 
Hill  from  the  main  road  are  peculiarly  steep, 
they  are  more  like  sudden  flights  of  stairs.  We 
were  just  opposite  Aubrey  Road,  the  steepest  of 
all;  up  that  it  would  have  been  far  more  diffi- 
cult to  urge  half-trained  horses  than  to  run  up  on 
one's  feet. 

"  'Left  wheel !'  hallooed  Wilson.  They  have 
gone  up  here/  he  added  to  me,  who  happened  to 
be  at  his  elbow. 

"  'Why?'  I  ventured  to  ask. 

" '  Can't  say  for  certain,'  replied  the  Bays- 
water  General.  'They've  gone  up  here  in  a  great 
hurry  anyhow.  They've  simply  turned  their 
horses  loose,  because  they  couldn't  take  them 
up.  I  fancy  I  know.  I  fancy  they're  trying 
to  get  over  the  ridge  to  Kensington  or  Ham- 
mersmith, or  somewhere,  and  are  striking 
up  here  because  it's  just  beyond  the  end  of  our 

236 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

line.  Damned  fools,  not  to  have  gone  further 
along  the  road,  though.  They've  only  just 
shaved  our  last  outpost.  Lambert  is  hardly 
four  hundred  yards  from  here.  And  I've  sent 
him  word.' 

"  '  Lambert !'  I  said.  'Not  young  Wilfrid  Lam- 
bert— my  old  friend.' 

"  'Wilfrid  Lambert's  his  name,'  said  the  Gen- 
eral; "used  to  be  a  'man  about  town;'  silly 
fellow  with  a  big  nose.  That  kind  of  man 
always  volunteers  for  some  war  or  other.  And 
what's  funnier,  he  generally  isn't  half  bad  at  it. 
Lambert  is  distinctly  good.  The  yellow  West 
Kensingtons  I  always  reckoned  the  weakest 
part  of  the  army;  but  he  has  pulled  them 
together  uncommonly  well,  though  he's  sub- 
ordinate to  Swindon,  who's  a  donkey.  In  the 
attack  from  Pembridge  Road  the  other  night  he 
showed  great  pluck.' 

"  'He  has  shown  greater  pluck  than  that,'  I 
said.  'He  has  criticised  my  sense  of  humour. 
That  was  his  first  engagement.' 

"This  remark  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  lost  on 
the  admirable  commander  of  the  allied  forces. 
We  were  in  the  act  of  climbing  the  last  half  of 
Aubrey  Road,  which  is  so  abrupt  a  slope  that  it 
looked  like  an  old-fashioned  map  leaning  up 
against  the  wall.  There  are  lines  of  little  trees, 

237 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

one  above  the  other,  as  in  the  old-fashioned 
map. 

"We  reached  the  top  of  it,  panting  some- 
what, and  were  just  about  to  turn  the  corner 
by  a  place  called  (in  chivalrous  anticipation  of 
our  wars  of  sword  and  axe)  Tower  Crecy,  when 
we  were  suddenly  knocked  in  the  stomach  (I 
can  use  no  other  term)  by  a  horde  of  men 
hurled  back  upon  us.  They  wore  the  red 
uniform  of  Wayne;  their  halberds  were  broken; 
their  foreheads  bleeding;  but  the  mere  impetus 
of  their  retreat  staggered  us  as  we  stood  at  the 
last  ridge  of  the  slope. 

"  'Good  old  Lambert !'  yelled  out,  suddenly,  the 
stolid  Mr.  Wilson  of  Bayswater,  in  an  uncon- 
trollable excitement.  'Damned  jolly  old  Lam- 
bert !  He's  got  there  already !  He's  driving  them 
back  on  us!  Hurrah!  hurrah!  Forward  the 
Green  Guards!' 

"We  swung  round  the  corner  eastwards,  Wil- 
son running  first,  brandishing  the  halberd. 

"Will  you  pardon  a  little  egotism  ?  Every  one 
likes  a  little  egotism,  when  it  takes  the  form, 
as  mine  does  in  this  case,  of  a  disgraceful  confes- 
sion. The  thing  is  really  a  little  interesting, 
because  it  shows  how  the  merely  artistic  habit 
has  bitten  into  men  like  me.  It  was  the 

most  intensely  exciting  occurrence  that  had  ever 

238 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

come  to  me  in  my  life;  and  I  was  really  in- 
tensely excited  about  it.  And  yet,  as  we  turned 
that  corner,  the  first  impression  I  had  was  of 
something  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  fight 
at  all.  I  was  stricken  from  the  sky  as  by  a 
thunderbolt,  by  the  height  of  the  Waterworks 
Tower  on  Campden  Hill.  I  don't  know  whether 
Londoners  generally  realise  how  high  it  looks 
when  one  comes  out,  in  this  way,  almost 
immediately  under  it.  For  the  second  it 
seemed  to  me  that  at  the  foot  of  it  even 
human  war  was  a  triviality.  For  the  second  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  drunk  with  some  trivial 
orgie,  and  that  I  had  been  sobered  by  the  shock 
of  that  shadow.  A  moment  afterwards,  I 
realised  that  tinder  it  was  going  on  something 
more  enduring  than  stone,  and  something 
wilder  than  the  dizziest  height — the  agony  of 
man.  And  I  knew  that  compared  to  that,  this 
overwhelming  tower  was  itself  a  triviality ;  it  was 
a  mere  stalk  of  stone  which  humanity  could  snap 
like  a  stick. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  have  talked  so  much  about 
this  silly  old  Waterworks  Tower,  which  at  the 
very  best  was  only  a  tremendous  back- 
ground. It  was  that,  certainly,  a  sombre  and 
awful  landscape,  against  which  our  figures  were 
relieved.  But  I  think  the  real  reason  was,  that 

239 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

there  was  in  my  own  mind  so  sharp  a  transition 
from  the  tower  of  stone  to  the  man  of  flesh.  For 
what  I  saw  first  when  I  had  shaken  off,  as  it 
were,  the  shadow  of  the  tower,  was  a  man,  and  a 
man  I  knew. 

"Lambert  stood  at  the  further  corner  of  the 
street  that  curved  round  the  tower,  his  figure 
outlined  in  some  degree  by  the  beginning  of 
moonrise.  He  looked  magnificent,  a  hero;  but 
he  looked  something  much  more  interesting 
than  that.  He  was,  as  it  happened,  in  almost 
precisely  the  same  swaggering  attitude  in  which 
he  had  stood  nearly  fifteen  years  ago,  when  he 
swung  his  walking-stick  and  struck  it  into  the 
ground,  and  told  me  that  all  my  subtlety  was 
drivel.  And,  upon  my  soul,  I  think  he  required 
more  courage  to  say  that  than  to  fight  as  he  does 
now.  For  then  he  was  fighting  against  some- 
thing that  was  in  the  ascendant,  fashionable,  and 
victorious.  And  now  he  is  fighting  (at  the  risk 
of  his  life,  no  doubt)  merely  against  something 
which  is  already  dead,  which  is  impossible, 
futile;  of  which  nothing  has  been  more  impos- 
sible and  futile  than  this  very  sortie  which 
has  brought  him  into  contact  with  it.  People 
nowadays  allow  infinitely  too  little  for  the 
psychological  sense  of  victory  as  a  factor  in 
affairs.  Then  he  was  attacking  the  degraded 

240 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

but  undoubtedly  victorious  Quin;  now  he  is 
attacking  the  interesting  but  totally  extinguished 
Wayne. 

"His  name  recalls  me  to  the  details  of  the 
scene.  The  facts  were  these.  A  line  of  red 
halberdiers,  headed  by  Wayne,  were  marching 
up  the  street,  close  under  the  northern  wall,  which 
is,  in  fact,  the  bottom  of  a  sort  of  dyke  or  forti- 
fication of  the  Waterworks.  Lambert  and  his 
yellow  West  Kensingtons  had  that  instant 
swept  round  the  corner  and  had  shaken  the 
Waynites  heavily,  hurling  back  a  few  of  the  more 
timid,  as  I  have  just  described,  into  our 
very  arms.  When  our  force  struck  the  tail  of 
Wayne's,  every  one  knew  that  all  was  up  with 
him.  His  favourite  military  barber  was  struck 
down.  His  grocer  was  stunned.  He  him- 
self was  hurt  in  the  thigh,  and  reeled 
back  against  the  wall.  We  had  him  in  a  trap 
with  two  jaws.  'Is  that  you?'  shouted  Lambert, 
genially,  to  Wilson,  across  the  hemmed-in  host 
of  Notting  Hill.  That's  about  the  ticket/  re- 
plied General  Wilson;  'keep  them  under  the 
wall.' 

"The  men  of  Notting  Hill  were  falling  fast. 
Adam  Wayne  threw  up  his  long  arms  to  the 
wall  above  him,  and  with  a  spring  stood  upon 
it,  a  gigantic  figure  against  the  moon.  He  tore 

241 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  banner  out  of  the  hands  of  the  standard- 
bearer  below  him,  and  shook  it  out  suddenly 
above  our  heads,  so  that  it  was  like  thunder  in 
the  heavens. 

"  'Round  the  Red  Lion !'  he  cried.  'Swords 
round  the  Red  Lion!  Halberds  round  the 
Red  Lion!  They  are  the  thorns  round  the 
rose.' 

"His  voice  and  the  crack  of  the  banner  made 
a  momentary  rally,  and  Lambert,  whose  idiotic 
face  was  almost  beautiful  with  battle,  felt  it  as 
by  an  instinct,  and  cried — 

"  'Drop  your  public-house  flag,  you  footler ! 
Drop  it!' 

"  'The  banner  of  the  Red  Lion  seldom  stoops,' 
said  Wayne,  proudly,  letting  it  out  luxuriantly  on 
the  night  wind. 

"The  next  moment  I  knew  that  poor  Adam's 
sentimental  theatricality  had  cost  him  much. 
Lambert  was  on  the  wall  at  a  bound,  his  sword 
in  his  teeth,  and  had  slashed  at  Wayne's 
head  before  he  had  time  to  draw  his  sword, 
his  hands  being  busy  with  the  enormous  flag. 
He  stepped  back  only  just  in  time  to  avoid 
the  first  cut,  and  let  the  flag-staff  fall,  so  that 
the  spear-blade  at  the  end  of  it  pointed  to 
Lambert. 

"  The  banner  stoops,'  cried  Wayne,  in  a  voice 
242 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

that  must  have  startled  streets.  'The  banner 
of  Netting  Hill  stoops  to  a  hero.'  And  with 
the  words  he  drove  the  spear-point  and  half 
the  flag-staff  through  Lambert's  body  and  dropped 
him  dead  upon  the  road  below,  a  stone  upon  the 
stones  of  the  street. 

"  'Notting  Hill !  Notting  Hill !'  cried  Wayne, 
in  a  sort  of  divine  rage.  'Her  banner  is 
all  the  holier  for  the  blood  of  a  brave  enemy! 
Up  on  the  wall,  patriots !  Up  on  the  wall !  Not- 
ting Hill !' 

"With  his  long  strong  arm  he  actually 
dragged  a  man  up  on  to  the  wall  to  be  silhouetted 
against  the  moon,  and  more  and  more  men 
climbed  up  there,  pulled  themselves  and  were 
pulled,  till  clusters  and  crowds  of  the  half- 
massacred  men  of  Pump  Street  massed  upon  the 
wall  above  us. 

"  'Notting  Hill !  Notting  Hill !'  cried  Wayne, 
unceasingly. 

'  'Well,  what  about  Bayswater  ?'  said  a  worthy 
working-man  in  Wilson's  army,  irritably.  'Bays- 
water  for  ever!' 

"  'We  have  won !'  cried  Wayne,  striking 
his  flag-staff  in  the  ground.  'Bayswater 
for  ever!  We  have  taught  our  enemies 
patriotism !' 

"  'OK,  cut  these   fellows  up  and   have  done 
243 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

with  it!'  cried  one  of  Lambert's  lieutenants, 
who  was  reduced  to  something  bordering  on 
madness  by  the  responsibility  of  succeeding  to 
the  command. 

"  'Let  us  by  all  means  try,'  said  Wilson, 
grimly;  and  the  two  armies  closed  round  the 
third. 

"I  simply  cannot  describe  what  followed.  I 
am  sorry,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  physical 
fatigue,  as  physical  nausea,  and,  I  may  add,  as 
physical  terror.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  above 
paragraph  was  written  about  n  p.m.,  and  that 
it  is  now  about  2  a.m.,  and  that  the  battle  is 
not  finished,  and  is  not  likely  to  be.  Suffice  it 
further  to  say  that  down  the  steep  streets  which 
lead  from  the  Waterworks  Tower  to  the  Not- 
ting Hill  High  Road,  blood  has  been  running, 
and  is  running,  in  great  red  serpents,  that 
curl  out  into  the  main  thoroughfare  and  shine  in 
the  moon. 

"Later. — The  final  touch  has  been  given  to  all 
this  terrible  futility.  Hours  have  passed;  morn- 
ing has  broken ;  men  are  still  swaying  and  fight- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  tower  and  round  the  corner 
of  Aubrey  Road ;  the  fight  has  not  finished.  But 
I  know  it  is  a  farce. 

244 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

"News  has  just  come  to  show  that  Wayne's 
amazing  sortie,  followed  by  the  amazing  resist- 
ance through  a  whole  night  on  the  wall  of  the 
Waterworks,  is  as  if  it  had  not  been.  What 
was  the  object  of  that  strange  exodus  we  shall 
probably  never  know,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
every  one  who  knew  will  probably  be  cut  to 
pieces  in  the  course  of  the  next  two  or  three 
hours. 

"I  have  heard,  about  three  minutes  ago,  that 
Buck  and  Buck's  methods  have  won  after  all. 
He  was  perfectly  right,  of  course,  when  one 
conies  to  think  of  it,  in  holding  that  it  was 
physically  impossible  for  a  street  to  defeat  a 
city.  While  we  thought  he  was  patrolling  the 
eastern  gates  with  his  Purple  army;  while  we 
were  rushing  about  the  streets  and  waving 
halberds  and  lanterns;  while  poor  old  Wilson 
was  scheming  like  Moltke  and  fighting  like 
Achilles  to  entrap  the  wild  Provost  of  Notting 
Hill, — Mr.  Buck,  retired  draper,  has  simply 
driven  down  in  a  hansom  cab  and  done  some- 
thing about  as  plain  as  butter  and  about  as 
useful  and  nasty.  He  has  gone  down  to  South 
Kensington,  Brompton,  and  Fulham,  and  by 
spending  about  four  thousand  pounds  of  his 
private  means,  has  raised  an  army  of  nearly  as 
many  men;  that  is  to  say,  an  army  big  enough 

245 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

to  beat,  not  only  Wayne,  but  Wayne  and  all  his 
present  enemies  put  together.  The  army,  I  under- 
stand, is  encamped  along  High  Street,  Kensing- 
ton, and  fills  it  from  the  Church  to  Addison  Road 
Bridge.  It  is  to  advance  by  ten  different  roads 
uphill  to  the  north. 

"I  cannot  endure  to  remain  here.  Every- 
thing makes  it  worse  than  it  need  be.  The 
dawn,  for  instance,  has  broken  round  Campden 
Hill;  splendid  spaces  of  silver,  edged  with 
gold,  are  torn  out  of  the  sky.  Worse  still, 
Wayne  and  his  men  feel  the  dawn;  their  faces, 
though  bloody  and  pale,  are  strangely  hopeful 
.  .  .  insupportably  pathetic.  Worst  of  all,  for 
the  moment  they  are  winning.  If  it  were  not 
for  Buck  and  the  new  army  they  might  just,  and 
only  just,  win. 

"I  repeat,  I  cannot  stand  it.  It  is  like  watch- 
ing that  wonderful  play  of  old  Maeterlinck's 
(you  know  my  partiality  for  the  healthy,  jolly 
old  authors  of  the  nineteenth  century),  in 
which  one  has  to  watch  the  quiet  conduct  of 
people  inside  a  parlour,  while  knowing  that  the 
very  men  are  outside  the  door  whose  word  can 
blast  it  all  with  tragedy.  And  this  is  worse, 
for  the  men  are  not  talking,  but  writhing  and 
bleeding  and  dropping  dead  for  a  thing  that  is 
already  settled — and  settled  against  them.  The 

246 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

great  grey  masses  of  men  still  toil  and  tug  and 
sway  hither  and  thither  around  the  great  grey 
tower;  and  the  tower  is  still  motionless,  as  it 
will  always  be  motionless.  These  men  will  be 
Crushed  before  the  sun  is  set;  and  new  men 
will  arise  and  be  crushed,  and  new  wrongs 
done,  and  tyranny  will  always  rise  again  like 
the  sun,  and  injustice  will  always  be  as  fresh 
as  the  flowers  of  spring.  And  the  stone 
tower  will  always  look  down  on  it.  Matter, 
in  its  brutal  beauty,  will  always  look  down 
on  those  who  are  mad  enough  to  consent  to 
die,  and  yet  more  mad,  since  they  consent  to 
live." 

Thus  ended  abruptly  the  first  and  last  contribu- 
tion of  the  Special  Correspondent  of  the  Court 
Journal  to  that  valued  periodical. 

The  Correspondent  himself,  as  has  been  said, 
was  simply  sick  and  gloomy  at  the  last  news  of 
the  triumph  of  Buck.  He  slouched  sadly  down 
the  steep  Aubrey  Road,  up  which  he  had  the 
night  before  run  in  so  unusual  an  excitement, 
and  strolled  out  into  the  empty  dawn-lit  main 
road,  looking  vaguely  for  a  cab.  He  saw 
nothing  in  the  vacant  space  except  a  blue- 
and-gold  glittering  thing,  running  very  fast, 
which  looked  at  first  like  a  very  tall  beetle, 

247 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

but  turned  out,  to  his  great  astonishment,  to  be 
Barker. 

"Have  you  heard  the  good  news?"  asked  that 
gentleman. 

"Yes,"  said  Quin,  with  a  measured  voice.  "I 
have  heard  the  glad  tidings  of  great  joy.  Shall 
we  take  a  hansom  down  to  Kensington?  I  see 
one  over  there." 

They  took  the  cab,  and,  were,  in  four  minutes, 
fronting  the  ranks  of  the  multitudinous  and 
invincible  army.  Quin  had  not  spoken  a  word 
all  the  way,  and  something  about  him  had 
prevented  the  essentially  impressionable  Barker 
from  speaking  either. 

The  great  army,  as  it  moved  up  Kensington 
High  Street,  calling  many  heads  to  the  number- 
less windows,  for  it  was  long  indeed — longer  than 
the  lives  of  most  of  the  tolerably  young — since 
such  an  army  had  been  seen  in  London.  Com- 
pared with  the  vast  organisation  which  was  now 
swallowing  up  the  miles,  with  Buck  at  its  head 
as  leader,  and  the  King  hanging  at  its  tail  as 
journalist,  the  whole  story  of  our  problem  was 
insignificant.  In  the  presence  of  that  army  the 
red  Notting  Hills  and  the  green  Bayswaters 
were  alike  tiny  and  straggling  groups.  In  its 
presence  the  whole  struggle  round  Pump  Street 
was  like  an  ant-hill  under  the  hoof  of  an  ox. 

248 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

Every  man  who  felt  or  looked  at  that  infinity  of 
men  knew  that  it  was  the  triumph  of  Buck's 
brutal  arithmetic.  Whether  Wayne  was  right 
or  wrong,  wise  or  foolish,  was  quite  a  fair  mat- 
ter for  discussion.  But  it  was  a  matter  of 
history.  At  the  foot  of  Church  Street,  opposite 
Kensington  Church,  they  paused  in  their  glowing 
good  humour. 

"Let  us  send  some  kind  of  messenger  or  herald 
up  to  them,"  said  Buck,  turning  to  Barker  and 
the  King.  "Let  us  send  and  ask  them  to  cave  in 
without  more  muddle." 

"What  shall  we  say  to  them?"  said  Barker, 
'doubtfully. 

"The  facts  of  the  case  are  quite  sufficient," 
rejoined  Buck.  "It  is  the  facts  of  the  case  that 
make  an  army  surrender.  Let  us  simply  say 
that  our  army  that  is  fighting  their  army, 
and  their  army  that  is  fighting  our  army, 
amount  altogether  to  about  a  thousand  men.  Say 
that  we  have  four  thousand.  It  is  very  simple. 
Of  the  thousand  fighting,  they  have  at  the 
very  most,  three  hundred,  so  that,  with  those 
three  hundred,  they  have  now  to  fight  four 
thousand  seven  hundred  men.  Let  them  do  it 
if  it  amuses  them." 

And     the     Provost     of     North     Kensington 

laughed. 

249 


The  Napoleon  of  Netting  Hill 

The  herald  who  was  despatched  up  Church 
Street  in  all  the  pomp  of  the  South  Kensington 
blue  and  gold,  with  the  Three  Birds  on  his  tabard, 
was  attended  by  two  trumpeters. 

"What  will  they  do  when  they  consent?" 
asked  Barker,  for  the  sake  of  saying  some- 
thing in  the  sudden  stillness  of  that  immense 
army. 

"I  know  my  Wayne  very  well,"  said  Buck, 
laughing.  "When  he  submits  he  will  send  a  red 
herald  flaming  with  the  Lion  of  Netting  Hill. 
Even  defeat  will  be  delightful  to  him,  since  it  is 
formal  and  romantic." 

The  King,  who  had  strolled  up  to  the  head  of 
the  line,  broke  silence  for  the  first  time. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  said,  "if  he  defied 
you,  and  didn't  send  the  herald  after  all.  I  don't 
think  you  do  know  your  Wayne  quite  so  well  as 
you  think." 

"All  right,  your  Majesty,"  said  Buck,  easily; 
"if  it  isn't  disrespectful,  I'll  put  my  political  cal- 
culations in  a  very  simple  form.  I'll  lay  you  ten 
pounds  to  a  shilling  the  herald  comes  with  the 
surrender." 

"All  right,"  said  Auberon.  "I  may  be  wrong, 
but  it's  my  notion  of  Adam  Wayne  that  he'll  die 
in  his  city,  and  that,  till  he  is  dead,  it  will  not  be 
a  safe  property." 

250 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

"The  bet's  made,  your  Majesty,"  said  Buck. 

Another  long  silence  ensued,  in  the  course  of 
which  Barker  alone,  amid  the  motionless 
army,  strolled  and  stamped  in  his  restless 
way. 

Then  Buck  suddenly  leant  forward. 

"It's  taking  your  money,  your  Majesty,"  he 
said.  "I  knew  it  was.  There  comes  the  herald 
from  Adam  Wayne." 

"It's  not,"  cried  the  King,  peering  forward  also. 
"You  brute,  it's  a  red  omnibus." 

"It's  not,"  said  Buck,  calmly;  and  the  King 
did  not  answer,  for  down  the  centre  of  the  spa- 
cious and  silent  Church  Street  was  walking, 
beyond  question,  the  herald  of  the  Red  Lion,  with 
two  trumpeters. 

Buck  had  something  in  him  which  taught 
him  how  to  be  magnanimous.  In  his  hour  of 
success  he  felt  magnanimous  towards  Wayne, 
whom  he  really  admired;  magnanimous  towards 
the  King,  off  whom  he  had  scored  so  publicly; 
and,  above  all,  magnanimous  towards  Barker, 
who  was  the  titular  leader  of  this  vast  South 
Kensington  army,  which  his  own  talent  had 
evoked. 

"General  Barker,"  he  said,  bowing,  "do  you 
propose  now  to  receive  the  message  from  the  be- 
sieged ?" 

251 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Barker  bowed  also,  and  advanced  towards  the 
herald. 

"Has  your  master,  Mr.  Adam  Wayne,  received 
our  request  for  surrender?"  he  asked. 

The  herald  conveyed  a  solemn  and  respectful 
affirmative. 

Barker  resumed,  coughing  slightly,  but  encour- 
aged. 

"What  answer  does  your  master  send  ?" 

The  herald  again  inclined  himself  sub- 
missively, and  answered  in  a  kind  of  mono- 
tone. 

"My  message  is  this.  Adam  Wayne,  Lord 
High  Provost  of  Notting  Hill,  under  the 
charter  of  King  Auberon  and  the  laws  of  God 
and  all  mankind,  free  and  of  a  free  city,  greets 
James  Barker,  Lord  High  Provost  of  South 
Kensington,  by  the  same  rights  free  and 
honourable,  leader  of  the  army  of  the  South. 
With  all  friendly  reverence,  and  with  all  con- 
stitutional consideration,  he  desires  James 
Barker  to  lay  down  his  arms,  and  the  whole 
army  under  his  command  to  lay  down  their 
arms  also." 

Before  the  words  were  ended  the  King  had 
run  forward  into  the  open  space  with  shining 
eyes.  The  rest  of  the  staff  and  the  forefront 
of  the  army  were  literally  struck  breathless. 

252 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

When  they  recovered  they  began  to  laugh 
beyond  restraint;  the  revulsion  was  too 
sudden. 

"The  Lord  High  Provost  of  Notting  Hill," 
continued  the  herald,  "does  not  propose,  in  the 
event  of  your  surrender,  to  use  his  victory  for 
any  of  those  repressive  purposes  which  others 
have  entertained  against  him.  He  will  leave  you 
your  free  laws  and  your  free  cities,  your  flags 
and  your  governments.  He  will  not  destroy  the 
religion  of  South  Kensington,  or  crush  the  old 
customs  of  Bayswater." 

An  irrepressible  explosion  of  laughter  went  up 
from  the  forefront  of  the  great  army. 

"The  King  must  have  had  something  to  do 
with  this  humour,"  said  Buck,  slapping  his  thigh. 
"It's  too  deliciously  insolent.  Barker,  have  a  glass 
of  wine." 

And  in  his  conviviality  he  actually  sent  a 
soldier  across  to  the  restaurant  opposite  the 
church  and  brought  out  two  glasses  for  a 
toast. 

When  the  laughter  Had  died  down,  the  herald 
continued  quite  monotonously — 

"In  the  event  of  your  surrendering  your 
arms  and  dispersing  under  the  superintendence 
of  our  forces,  these  local  rights  of  yours  shall 
be  carefully  observed.  In  the  event  of  your 

253 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

not  doing  so,  the  Lord  High  Provost  of  Not- 
ting Hill  desires  to  announce  that  he  has  just 
captured  the  Waterworks  Tower,  just  above 
you,  on  Campden  Hill,  and  that  within  ten  min- 
utes from  now,  that  is,  on  the  reception 
through  me  of  your  refusal,  he  will  open  the  great 
reservoir  and  flood  the  whole  valley  where  you 
stand  in  thirty  feet  of  water.  God  save  King 
Auberon !" 

Buck  had  dropped  his  glass  and  sent  a  great 
splash  of  wine  over  the  road. 

"But — but — "  he  said;  and  then  by  a  last  and 
splendid  effort  of  his  great  sanity,  looked  the  facts 
in  the  face. 

"We  must  surrender,"  he  said.  "You  could 
do  nothing  against  fifty  thousand  tons  of 
water  coming  down  a  steep  hill,  ten  minutes 
hence.  We  must  surrender.  Our  four  thousand 
men  might  as  well  be  four.  Vicisti  Galilae!  Per- 
kins, you  may  as  well  get  me  another  glass  of 
wine." 

In  this  way  the  vast  army  of  South  Kensing- 
ton surrendered  and  the  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 
began.  One  further  fact  in  this  connection 
is  perhaps  worth  mentioning — the  fact  that, 
after  his  victory,  Adam  Wayne  caused  the 
great  tower  on  Campden  Hill  to  be  plated  with 
gold  and  inscribed  with  a  great  epitaph,  saying 

254 


The  Great  Army  of  South  Kensington 

that  it  was  the  monument  of  Wilfrid  Lambert, 
the  heroic  defender  of  the  place,  and  sur- 
mounted with  a  statue,  in  which  his  large 
nose  was  done  something  less  than  jus- 
tice to. 


255 


BOOK  V 


CHAPTER    I — "The    Empire    of    Notting 
Hill" 

ON  the  evening  of  the  third  of  Octo- 
ber, twenty  years  after  the  great 
victory  of  Notting  Hill,  which 
gave  it  the  dominion  of  London,  King 
Auberon,  came,  as  of  old,  out  of  Kensing- 
ton Palace. 

He  had  changed  little,  save  for  a  streak  or 
two  of  grey  in  his  hair,  for  his  face  had  always 
been  old,  and  his  step  slow,  and,  as  it  were, 
decrepit. 

If  he  looked  old,  it  was  not  because  of  any- 
thing physical  or  mental.  It  was  because  he 
still  wore,  with  a  quaint  conservatism,  the 
frock-coat  and  high  hat  of  the  days  before  the 
great  war.  "I  have  survived  the  Deluge,"  he 
said.  "I  am  a  pyramid,  and  must  behave  as 
such." 

As  he  passed  up  the  street  the  Kensingtonians, 
in  their  picturesque  blue  smocks,  saluted  him 
as  a  King,  and  then  looked  after  him  as  a 
curiosity.  It  seemed  odd  to  them  that  men  had 
once  worn  so  elvish  an  attire. 

The  King,  cultivating  the  walk  attributed  to 
the  oldest  inhabitant  ("Gaffer  Auberon"  his 

259 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

friends  were  now  confidentially  desired  to  call 
him),  went  toddling  northward.  He  paused, 
with  reminiscence  in  his  eye,  at  the  Southern 
Gate  of  Notting  Hill,  one  of  those  nine  great 
gates  of  bronze  and  steel,  wrought  with  reliefs 
of  the  old  battles,  by  the  hand  of  Chiffy  him- 
self. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  shaking  his  Head  and  assum- 
ing an  unnecessary  air  of  age,  and  a  provincialism 
of  accent,  "Ah!  I  mind  when  there  warn't  none 
of  this  here." 

He  passed  through  the  Ossington  Gate,  sur- 
mounted by  a  great  lion,  wrought  in  red  copper 
on  yellow  brass,  with  the  motto,  "Nothing  111." 
The  guard  in  red  and  gold  saluted  him  with  his 
halberd. 

It  was  about  sunset,  and  the  lamps  were 
being  lit.  Auberon  paused  to  look  at  them,  for 
they  were  Chifry's  finest  work,  and  his  artistic 
eye  never  failed  to  feast  on  them.  In  memory 
of  the  Great  Battle  of  the  Lamps,  each  great 
iron  lamp  was  surmounted  by  a  veiled  figure, 
sword  in  hand,  holding  over  the  flame  an  iron 
hood  or  extinguisher,  as  if  ready  to  let  it  fall 
if  the  armies  of  the  South  and  West  should 
again  show  their  flags  in  the  city.  Thus  no 
child  in  Notting  Hill  could  play  about  the 
streets  without  the  very  lamp-posts  reminding 

260 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


him  of  the  salvation  of  his  country  in  the  dread- 
ful year. 

"Old  Wayne  was  right  in  a  way,"  com- 
mented the  King.  "The  sword  does  make 
things  beautiful.  It  has  made  the  whole  world 
romantic  by  now.  And  to  think  people  once 
thought  me  a  buffoon  for  suggesting  a  romantic 
Notting  Hill.  Deary  me,  deary  me  (I  think 
that  is  the  expression).  It  seems  like  a  previous 
existence." 

Turning  a  corner  he  found  himself  in  Pump 
Street,  opposite  the  four  shops  which  Adam 
Wayne  had  studied  twenty  years  before.  He 
entered  idly  the  shop  of  Mr.  Mead,  the  grocer. 
Mr.  Mead  was  somewhat  older,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  his  red  beard,  which  he  now 
wore  with  a  moustache,  and  long  and  full,  was 
partly  blanched  and  discoloured.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  long  and  richly  embroidered  robe 
of  blue,  brown,  and  crimson,  interwoven  with 
an  Eastern  complexity  of  pattern,  and  covered 
with  obscure  symbols  and  pictures,  representing 
his  wares  passing  from  hand  to  hand  and  from 
nation  to  nation.  Round  his  neck  was  the 
chain  with  the  Blue  Argosy  cut  in  turquoise, 
which  he  wore  as  Grand  Master  of  the  Grocers. 
The  whole  shop  had  the  sombre  and  sumptuous 
look  of  its  owner.  The  wares  were  displayed 

261 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

as  prominently  as  in  the  old  days,  but  they 
were  now  blended  and  arranged  with  a  sense  of 
tint  and  grouping,  too  often  neglected  by  the 
dim  grocers  of  those  forgotten  days.  The 
wares  were  shown  plainly,  but  shown  not  so 
much  as  an  old  grocer  would  have  shown  his 
stock,  but  rather  as  an  educated  virtuoso  would 
have  shown  his  treasures.  The  tea  was  stored 
in  great  blue  and  green  vases,  inscribed  with  the 
nine  indispensable  sayings  of  the  wise  men  of 
China.  Other  vases  of  a  confused  orange  and 
purple,  less  rigid  and  dominant,  more  humble 
and  dreamy,  stored  symbolically  the  tea  of  India. 
A  row  of  caskets  of  a  simple  silvery  metal 
contained  tinned  meats.  Each  was  wrought 
with  some  rude  but  rhythmic  form,  as  a  shell,  a 
horn,  a  fish,  or  an  apple,  to  indicate  what  material 
had  been  canned  in  it. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  Mr.  Mead,  sweep- 
ing an  Oriental  reverence.  "This  is  an 
honour  to  me,  but  yet  more  an  honour  to 
the  city." 

Auberon  took  off  his  hat. 

"Mr.  Mead,"  he  said,  "Notting  Hill, 
whether  in  giving  or  taking,  can  deal  in 
nothing  but  honour.  Do  you  happen  to  sell 
liquorice  ?" 

"Liquorice,  sire,"  said  Mr.  Mead,  "is  not  the 
262 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


least  important  of  our  benefits  out  of  the  dark 
heart  of  Arabia." 

And  going  reverently  towards  a  green  and  sil- 
ver canister,  made  in  the  form  of  an  Arabian 
mosque,  he  proceeded  to  serve  his  customer. 

"I  was  just  thinking,  Mr.  Mead,"  said  the 
King  reflectively,  "I  don't  know  why  I  should 
think  about  it  just  now,  but  I  was  just  thinking  of 
twenty  years  ago.  Do  you  remember  the  times 
before  the  war?" 

The  grocer,  having  wrapped  up  the  liquorice 
sticks  in  a  piece  of  paper  (inscribed  with  some 
appropriate  sentiment),  lifted  his  large  grey 
eyes  dreamily,  and  looked  at  the  darkening  sky 
outside. 

"Oh  yes,  your  Majesty,"  he  said.  "I  remem- 
ber these  streets  before  the  Lord  Provost  be- 
gan to  rule  us.  I  can't  remember  how  we  felt 
very  well.  All  the  great  songs  and  the  fight- 
ing change  one  so;  and  I  don't  think  we  can 
really  estimate  all  we  owe  to  the  Provost;  but 
I  can  remember  his  coming  into  this  very  shop 
twenty-two  years  ago,  and  I  remember  the 
things  he  said.  The  singular  thing  is  that 
as  far  as  I  remember  I  thought  the  things  he 
said  odd  at  that  time.  Now  it's  the  things  that 
I  said,  as  far  as  I  can  recall  them,  that  seem  to 
me  odd — as  odd  as  a  madman's  antics." 

263 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"Ah!"  said  the  King;  and  looked  at  him  with 
an  unfathomable  quietness. 

"I  thought  nothing  of  being  a  grocer  then," 
he  said.  "Isn't  that  odd  enough  for  anybody? 
I  thought  nothing  of  all  the  wonderful  places 
that  my  goods  come  from,  and  wonderful  ways 
that  they  are  made.  I  did  not  know  that  I  was 
for  all  practical  purposes  a  king  with  slaves 
spearing  fishes  near  the  secret-pool,  and  gather- 
ing fruits  in  the  islands  under  the  world.  My 
mind  was  a  blank  on  the  thing.  I  was  as  mad  as 
a  hatter." 

The  King  turned  also,  and  stared  out  into  the 
dark,  where  the  great  lamps  that  commemorated 
the  battle  were  already  flaming. 

"And  is  this  the  end  of  poor  old  Wayne?" 
he  said,  half  to  himself.  "To  inflame  every 
one  so  much  that  he  is  lost  himself  in  the  blaze. 
Is  this  his  victory,  that  he,  my  incomparable 
Wayne,  is  now  only  one  in  a  world  of  Waynes? 
Has  he  conquered  and  become  by  conquest  com- 
monplace? Must  Mr.  Mead,  the  grocer,  talk  as 
high  as  he?  Lord !  what  a  strange  world  in  which 
a  man  cannot  remain  unique  even  by  taking  the 
trouble  to  go  mad." 

And  he  went  dreamily  out  of  the  shop. 

He  paused  outside  the  next  one  almost  pre- 
cisely as  the  Provost  had  done  two  decades  before. 

264 


"A   F1MI   EVENING,   SIR,"  SAID   THE   CHEMIST 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


"How  uncommonly  creepy  this  shop  looks," 
he  said.  "But  yet  somehow  encouragingly 
creepy,  invitingly  creepy.  It  looks  like  some- 
thing in  a  jolly  old  nursery  story  in  which  you 
are  frightened  out  of  your  skin,  and  yet  know 
that  things  always  end  well.  The  way  those 
low  sharp  gables  are  carved  like  great  black 
bat's  wings  folded  down,  and  the  way  those 
queer-coloured  bowls  underneath  are  made  to 
shine  like  giant's  eye-balls.  It  looks  like  a 
benevolent  warlock's  hut.  It  is  apparently  a 
chemist's." 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  Mr.  Bowles,  the  chemist, 
came  to  his  shop  door  in  a  long  black  velvet 
gown  and  hood,  monastic  as  it  were,  but  yet 
with  a  touch  of  the  diabolic.  His  hair  was 
still  quite  black,  and  his  face  even  paler  than  of 
old.  The  only  spot  of  colour  he  carried  was  a 
red  star  cut  in  some  precious  stone  of  strong 
tint,  hung  on  his  breast.  He  belonged  to  the 
Society  of  the  Red  Star  of  Charity,  founded  on 
the  lamps  displayed  by  doctors  and  chemists. 

"A  fine  evening,  sir,"  said  the  chemist. 
"Why,  I  can  scarcely  be  mistaken  in  supposing 
it  to  be  your  Majesty.  Pray  step  inside  and 
share  a  bottle  of  sal-volatile,  or  anything  that 
may  take  your  fancy.  As  it  happens  there  is 
an  old  acquaintance  of  your  Majesty's  in  my 

265 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

shop  carousing  (if  I  may  be  permitted  the  term) 
upon  that  beverage  at  this  moment." 

The  King  entered  the  shop,  which  was  an 
Aladdin's  garden  of  shades  and  hues,  for  as  the 
chemist's  scheme  of  colour  was  more  brilliant  than 
the  grocer's  scheme,  so  it  was  arranged  with  even 
more  delicacy  and  fancy.  Never,  if  the  phrase 
may  be  employed,  had  such  a  nosegay  of  medi- 
cines been  presented  to  the  artistic  eye. 

But  even  the  solemn  rainbow  of  that  evening 
interior  was  rivalled  or  even  eclipsed  by  the 
figure  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  shop.  His 
form,  which  was  a  large  and  stately  one,  was 
clad  in  a  brilliant  blue  velvet,  cut  in  the  richest 
Renaissance  fashion,  and  slashed  so  as  to  show 
gleams  and  gaps  of  a  wonderful  lemon  or  pale 
yellow.  He  had  several  chains  round  his  neck 
and  his  plumes,  which  were  of  several  tints  of 
bronze  and  gold,  hung  down  to  the  great  gold 
hilt  of  his  long  sword.  He  was  drinking  a 
dose  of  sal-volatile,  and  admiring  its  opal  tint. 
The  King  advanced  with  a  slight  mystification 
towards  the  tall  figure,  whose  face  was  in  shadow, 
then  he  said — 

"By  the  Great  Lord  of  Luck,  Barker !" 

The  figure  removed  his  plumed  cap,  showing 
the  same  dark  head  and  long,  almost  equine, 
face  which  the  King  had  so  often  seen  rising 

266 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


out  of  the  high  collar  of  Bond  Street.  Except 
for  a  grey  patch  on  each  temple,  it  was  totally 
unchanged. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  Barker,  "this  is  a 
meeting  nobly  retrospective,  a  meeting  that  has 
about  it  a  certain  October  gold.  I  drink  to  old 
days ;"  and  he  finished  his  sal- volatile  with  simple 
feeling. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you  again,  Barker," 
said  the  King.  "It  is,  indeed,  long  since  we 
met.  What  with  my  travels  in  Asia  Minor, 
and  my  book  having  to  be  written  (you  have 
read  my  'Life  of  Prince  Albert  for  Children/  of 
course),  we  have  scarcely  met  twice  since  the 
Great  War.  That  is  twenty  years  ago." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Barker,  thoughtfully,  "if  I 
might  speak  freely  to  your  Majesty." 

"Well,"  said  Auberon,  "it's  rather  late  in  the 
day  to  start  speaking  respectfully.  Flap  away,  my 
bird  of  freedom." 

"Well,  your  Majesty,"  replied  Barker,  lower- 
ing his  voice,  "I  don't  think  it  will  be  so  long  to 
the  next  war." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Auberon. 

"We  will  stand  this  insolence  no  longer," 
burst  out  Barker,  fiercely.  "We  are  not  slaves 
because  Adam  Wayne  twenty  years  ago  cheated 
us  with  a  water-pipe.  Notting  Hill  is  Notting 

267 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Hill;  it  is  not  tHe  world.  We  in  South 
Kensington,  we  also  have  memories — aye,  and 
hopes.  If  they  fought  for  these  trumpery 
shops  and  a  few  lamp-posts,  shall  we  not  fight 
for  the  great  High  Street  and  the  sacred  Natural 
History  Museum  ?" 

"Great  Heavens!"  said  the  astounded  Au- 
beron.  "Will  wonders  never  cease?  Have  the 
two  greatest  marvels  been  achieved?  Have 
you  turned  altruistic,  and  has  Wayne  turned 
selfish?  Are  you  the  patriot,  and  he  the 
tyrant?" 

"It  is  not  from  Wayne  himself  altogether  that 
the  evil  comes,"  answered  Barker.  "He,  in- 
deed, is  now  mostly  wrapped  in  dreams,  and 
sits  with  his  old  sword  beside  the  fire.  But 
Notting  Hill  is  the  tyrant,  your  Majesty.  Its 
Council  and  its  crowds  have  been  so  intoxicated 
by  the  spreading  over  the  whole  city  of  Wayne's 
old  ways  and  visions,  that  they  try  to  meddle 
with  every  one,  and  rule  every  one,  and  civilise 
every  one,  and  tell  every  one  what  is  good  for 
him.  I  do  not  deny  the  great  impulse  which 
his  old  war,  wild  as  it  seemed,  gave  to  the  civic 
life  of  our  time.  It  came  when  I  was  still  a 
young  man,  and  I  admit  it  enlarged  my  career. 
But  we  are  not  going  to  see  our  own  cities 
flouted  and  thwarted  from  day  to  day  because 

268 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


of  something  Wayne  did  for  us  all  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago.  I  am  just  waiting 
here  for  news  upon  this  very  matter.  It  is 
rumoured  that  Notting  Hill  has  vetoed  the 
statue  of  General  Wilson  they  are  putting  up 
opposite  Chepstow  Place.  If  that  is  so,  it  is 
a  black  and  white  shameless  breach  of  the  terms 
on  which  we  surrendered  to  Turnbull  after  the 
battle  of  the  Tower.  We  were  to  keep  our 
own  customs  and  self-government.  If  that 
is  so — " 

"It  is  so,"  said  a  deep  voice;  and  both  men 
turned  round. 

A  burly  figure  in  purple  robes,  with  a  silver 
eagle  hung  round  his  neck  and  moustaches 
almost  as  florid  as  his  plumes,  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  acknowledging  the  King's  start, 
"I  am  Provost  Buck,  and  the  news  is  true.  These 
men  of  the  Hill  have  forgotten  that  we  fought 
round  the  Tower  as  well  as  they  did,  and 
that  it  is  sometimes  foolish,  as  well  as  base,  to 
despise  the  conquered." 

"Let  us  step  outside,"  said  Barker,  with  a  grim 
composure. 

Buck  did  so,  and  stood  rolling  his  eyes  up  and 
down  the  lamp-lit  street. 

"I  would  like  to  have  a  go  at  smashing  all 
269 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

this,"  he  muttered,  "though  I  am  over  sixty.  I 
would  like — " 

His  voice  ended  in  a  cry,  and  he  reeled  back  a 
step,  with  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  as  he  had  done 
in  those  streets  twenty  years  before. 

"Darkness !"  he  cried — "darkness  again !  What 
does  it  mean?" 

For  in  truth  every  lamp  in  the  street  had 
gone  out,  so  that  they  could  not  see  even  each 
other's  outline,  except  faintly.  The  voice  of  the 
chemist  came  with  startling  cheerfulness  out  of 
the  density. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?"  he  said.  "Did  they 
never  tell  you  this  is  the  Feast  of  the  Lamps, 
the  anniversary  of  the  great  battle  that  almost 
lost  and  just  saved  Notting  Hill?  Don't  you 
know,  your  Majesty,  that  on  this  night  twen- 
ty-one years  ago  we  saw  Wilson's  green  uni- 
forms charging  down  this  street,  and  driving 
Wayne  and  Turnbull  back  upon  the  gas-works, 
righting  with  their  handful  of  men  like  fiends  from 
hell?  And  that  then,  in  that  great  hour,  Wayne 
sprang  through  a  window  of  the  gas-works, 
with  one  blow  of  his  hand  brought  darkness  on 
the  whole  city,  and  then  with  a  cry  like  a 
lion's,  that  was  heard  through  four  streets,  flew 
at  Wilson's  men,  sword  in  hand,  and  swept 
them,  bewildered  as  they  were,  and  ignorant  of 

270 


The  Empire  of  Netting  Hill 


the  map,  clear  out  of  the  sacred  street  again  ?  And 
don't  you  know  that  upon  that  night  every  year 
all  lights  are  turned  out  for  half  an  hour  while 
we  sing  the  Notting  Hill  anthem  in  the  darkness  ? 
Hark !  there  it  begins." 

Through  the  night  came  a  crash  of  drums,  and 
then  a  strong  swell  of  human  voices — 


"When  the  world  was  in  the  balance,   there  was  night  on 

Notting  Hill, 
(There  was  night  on  Notting  Hill):  it  was  nobler  than  the 

day; 

On  the  cities  where  the  lights  are  and  the  firesides  glow, 
From  the  seas  and  from  the  deserts  came  the  thing  we  did 

not  know, 

Came  the  darkness,  came  the  darkness,  came  the  darkness 
on  the  foe, 

And  the  old  guard  of  God  turned  to  bay. 
For  the  old  guard  of  God  turns  to  bay,  turns  to  bay, 
And  the  stars  fall  down  before  it  ere  its  banners  fall  to-day. 
For  when  armies  were  arcund  us  as  a  howling  and  a  horde, 
When  falling  was  the  citadel  and  broken  was  the  sword, 
The  darkness  came  upon  them  like  the  Dragon  of  the  Lord, 
When  the  old  guard  of  God  turned  to  bay." 


The  voices  were  just  uplifting  themselves  in  a 
second  verse,  when  they  were  stopped  by  a  scurry 
and  a  yell.  Barker  had  bounded  into  the  street 
with  a  cry  of  "South  Kensington!"  and  a 
drawn  dagger.  In  less  time  than  man  could 
blink,  the  whole  packed  street  was  full  of  curses 

and  struggling.     Barker  was  flung  back  against 

271 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  shop-front,  but  used  the  second  only  to  draw 
his  sword  as  well  as  his  dagger,  and  calling  out', 
"This  is  not  the  first  time  I've  come  through  the 
thick  of  you,"  flung  himself  again  into  the  press. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  drawn  blood  at  last, 
for  a  more  violent  outcry  arose,  and  many  other 
knives  and  swords  were  discernible  in  the  faint 
light.  Barker,  after  having  wounded  more  than 
one  man,  seemed  on  the  point  of  being  flung 
back  again,  when  Buck  suddenly  stepped  out 
into  the  street.  He  had  no  weapon,  for  he 
affected  rather  the  peaceful  magnificence  of  the 
great  burgher,  than  the  pugnacious  dandyism 
which  had  replaced  the  old  sombre  dandyism 
in  Barker.  But  with  a  blow  of  his  clenched 
fist  he  broke  the  pane  of  the  next  shop,  which 
was  the  old  curiosity  shop,  and,  plunging  in  his 
hand,  snatched  a  kind  of  Japanese  scimitar,  and 
calling  out,  "Kensington !  Kensington !"  rushed  to 
Barker's  assistance. 

Barker's  sword  was  broken,  but  he  was  laying 
about  him  with  his  dagger.  Just  as  Buck  ran 
up,  a  man  of  Notting  Hill  struck  Barker  down, 
but  Buck  struck  the  man  down  on  top  of  him, 
and  Barker  sprang  up  again,  the  blood  running 
down  his  face. 

Suddenly  all  these  cries  were  cloven  by  a 
great  voice,  that  seemed  to  fall  out  of  heaven. 

272 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


It  was  terrible  to  Buck  and  Barker  and  the  King 
from  its  seeming  to  come  out  the  empty  skies; 
but  it  was  more  terrible  because  it  was  a  familiar 
voice,  and  one  which  at  the  same  time  they  had 
not  heard  for  so  long. 

"Turn  up  the  lights,"  said  the  voice  from 
above  them,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  no  reply, 
but  only  a  tumult. 

"In  the  name  of  Notting  Hill,  and  of  the  great 
Council  of  the  City,  turn  up  the  lights." 

There  was  again  a  tumult  and  a  vagueness 
for  a  moment,  then  the  whole  street  and  every 
object  in  it  sprang  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness, 
as  every  lamp  sprang  into  life.  And  looking  up 
they  saw,  standing  upon  a  balcony  near  the  roof 
of  one  of  the  highest  houses,  the  figure  and  the 
face  of  Adam  Wayne,  his  red  hair  blowing  behind 
him,  a  little  streaked  with  grey. 

"What  is  this,  my  people?"  he  said.  "Is  it 
altogether  impossible  to  make  a  thing  good 
without  it  immediately  insisting  on  being 
wicked?  The  glory  of  Notting  Hill  in  having 
achieved  its  independence,  has  been  enough 
for  me  to  dream  of  for  many  years,  as  I  sat 
beside  the  fire.  Is  it  really  not  enough  for 
you,  who  have  had  so  many  other  affairs  to 
excite  and  distract  you?  Notting  Hill  is  a 
nation.  Why  should  it  condescend  to  be  a 

273 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

mere  Empire?  You  wish  to  pull  down  the 
statue  of  General  Wilson,  which  the  men  of 
Bayswater  have  so  rightly  erected  in  West- 
bourne  Grove.  Fools!  Who  erected  that 
statue?  Did  Bayswater  erect  it?  No.  Not- 
ting Hill  erected  it.  Do  you  not  see  that  it  is 
the  glory  of  our  achievement  that  we  have 
infected  the  other  cities  with  the  idealism  of 
Notting  Hill?  It  is  we  who  have  created  not 
only  our  own  side,  but  both  sides  of  this  con- 
troversy. O  too  humble  fools — why  should  you 
wish  to  destroy  your  enemies?  You  have  done 
something  more  to  them.  You  have  created  your 
enemies.  You  wish  to  pull  down  that  gigantic 
silver  hammer,  which  stands,  like  an  obelisk,  in 
the  centre  of  the  Broadway  of  Hammersmith. 
Fools!  Before  Notting  Hill  arose,  did  any 
person  passing  through  Hammersmith  Broad- 
way expect  to  see  there  a  gigantic  silver  hammer  ? 
You  wish  to  abolish  the  great  bronze  figure  of 
a  knight  standing  upon  the  artificial  bridge  at 
Knightsbridge.  Fools!  Who  would  have 
thought  of  it  before  Notting  Hill  arose?  I 
have  even  heard,  and  with  deep  pain  I  have 
heard  it,  that  the  evil  eye  of  our  imperial 
envy  has  been  cast  towards  the  remote  horizon 
of  the  west,  and  that  we  have  objected  to  the 
great  black  monument  of  a  crowned  raven, 

274 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


which  commemorates  the  skirmish  of  Ravens- 
court  Park.  Who  created  all  these  things? 
Were  they  there  before  we  came?  Cannot 
you  be  content  with  that  destiny  which  was 
enough  for  Athens,  which  was  enough  for 
Nazareth?  the  destiny,  the  humble  purpose 
of  creating  a  new  world.  Is  Athens  angry 
because  Romans  and  Florentines  have  adopted 
her  phraseology  for  expressing  their  own 
patriotism?  Is  Nazareth  angry  because  as  a 
little  village  it  has  become  the  type  of  all  little 
villages  out  of  which,  as  the  Snobs  say,  no  good 
can  come?  Has  Athens  asked  every  one  to 
wear  the  chlamys?  Are  all  followers  of  the 
Nazarene  compelled  to  wear  turbans?  No! 
but  the  soul  of  Athens  went  forth  and  made 
men  drink  hemlock,  and  the  soul  of  Nazareth 
went  forth  and  made  men  consent  to  be  cru- 
cified. So  has  the  soul  of  Notting  Hill  gone 
forth  and  made  men  realise  what  it  is  to 
live  in  a  city.  Just  as  we  inaugurated  our 
symbols  and  ceremonies,  so  they  have  inaugu- 
rated theirs;  and  are  you  so  mad  as  to  con- 
tend against  them?  Notting  Hill  is  right;  it 
has  always  been  right.  It  has  moulded  itself  on 
its  own  necessities,  its  own  sine  qua  non, 
it  has  accepted  its  own  ultimatum.  Because 
it  is  a  nation  it  has  created  itself.  And 

275 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

because  it  is  a  nation  it  can  destroy  itself. 
Notting  Hill  shall  always  be  the  judge.  If 
it  is  your  will  because  of  this  matter  of 
General  Wilson's  statue  to  make  war  upon 
Bays  water — " 

A  roar  of  cheers  broke  in  upon  his  words, 
and  further  speech  was  impossible.  Pale  to 
the  lips,  the  great  patriot  tried  again  and  again 
to  speak;  but  even  his  authority  could  not  keep 
down  the  dark  and  roaring  masses  in  the 
street  below  him.  He  said  something  further, 
but  it  was  not  audible.  He  descended  at  last 
sadly  from  the  garret  in  which  he  lived,  and 
mingled  with  the  crowd  at  the  foot  of  the  houses. 
Finding  General  Turnbull,  he  put  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder  with  a  queer  affection  and  gravity, 
and  said — 

"To-morrow,  old  man,  we  shall  have  a  new 
experience,  as  fresh  as  the  flowers  of  spring. 
We  shall  be  defeated.  You  and  I  have  been 
through  three  battles  together,  and  have  some- 
how or  other  missed  this  peculiar  delight.  It 
is  unfortunate  that  we  shall  not  probably  be 
able  to  exchange  our  experiences,  because,  as  it 
most  annoyingly  happens,  we  shall  probably  both 
be  dead." 

Turnbull  looked  dimly  surprised. 

"I  don't  mind  so  much  about  being  dead,"  he 
276 


The  Empire  of  Notting  Hill 


said,  "but  why  should  you  say  that  we  shall  be 
defeated?" 

"The  answer  is  very  simple,"  replied  Wayne, 
calmly.  "It  is  because  we  ought  to  be  defeated. 
We  have  been  in  the  most  horrible  holes  before 
now ;  but  in  all  those  I  was  perfectly  certain 
that  the  stars  were  on  our  side,  and  that  we  ought 
to  get  out.  Now,  I  know  that  we  ought  not  to 
get  out ;  and  that  takes  away  from  me  everything 
with  which  I  won." 

As  Wayne  spoke  he  started  a  little,  for  both 
men  became  aware  that  a  third  figure  was  listen- 
ing to  them — SL  small  figure  with  wondering 
eyes. 

"Is  it  really  true,  my  dear  Wayne,"  said  the 
King,  interrupting,  "that  you  think  you  will  be 
beaten  to-morrow?" 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it  whatever," 
replied  Adam  Wayne;  "the  real  reason  is  the  one 
of  which  I  have  just  spoken.  But  as  a  conces- 
sion to  your  materialism,  I  will  add  that  they 
have  an  organised  army  of  a  hundred  allied  cities 
against  our  one.  That  in  itself,  however,  would 
be  unimportant." 

Quin,  with  his  round  eyes,  seemed  strangely 
insistent. 

"You  are  quite  sure,"  he  said,  "that  you  must 
be  beaten?" 

277 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Turnbull,  gloomily,  "that 
there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it." 

"Then,"  cried  the  King,  flinging  out  his 
arms,  "give  me  a  halberd!  Give  me  a  halberd, 
somebody!  I  desire  all  men  to  witness  that  I, 
Auberon,  King  of  England,  do  here  and  now 
abdicate  and  implore  the  Provost  of  Notting  Hill 
to  permit  me  to  enlist  in  his  army.  Give  me  a 
halberd!" 

He  seized  one  from  some  passing  guard,  and, 
shouldering  it,  stamped  solemnly  after  the  shout- 
ing columns  of  halberdiers  which  were,  by  this 
time,  parading  the  streets.  He  had,  however, 
nothing  to  do  with  the  wrecking  of  the  statue 
of  General  Wilson,  which  took  place  before 
morning. 


278 


CHAPTER    II — The  Last  Battle 

THE  day  was  cloudy  when  Wayne  went 
down  to  die  with  all  his  army  in 
Kensington  Gardens;  it  was  cloudy 
again  when  that  army  had  been  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  vast  armies  of  a  new  world. 
There  had  been  an  almost  uncanny  interval 
of  sunshine,  in  which  the  Provost  of  Notting 
Hill,  with  all  the  placidity  of  an  onlooker,  had 
gazed  across  to  the  hostile  armies  on  the 
great  spaces  of  verdure  opposite;  the  long 
strips  of  green  and  blue  and  gold  lay 
across  the  park  in  squares  and  oblongs 
like  a  proposition  in  Euclid  wrought  in  a 
rich  embroidery.  But  the  sunlight  was  a 
weak  and,  as  it  were,  a  wet  sunlight,  and 
was  soon  swallowed  up.  Wayne  spoke  to 
the  King,  with  a  queer  sort  of  coldness  and 
languor,  as  to  the  military  operations.  It  was 
as  he  had  said  the  night  before,  that  being 
deprived  of  his  sense  of  an  impracticable  rec- 
titude he  was,  in  effect,  being  deprived  of 
everything.  He  was  out  of  date,  and  at  sea  in 
a  mere  world  of  compromise  and  competition, 
of  Empire  against  Empire,  of  the  tolerably  right 
and  the  tolerably  wrong.  When  his  eye  fell  on 

279 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  King,  however,  who  was  marching  very 
gravely  with  a  top  hat  and  a  halberd,  it 
brightened  slightly. 

"Well,  your  Majesty,"  he  said,  "you  at  least 
ought  to  be  proud  to-day.  If  your  children 
are  fighting  each  other,  at  least  those  who 
win  are  your  children.  Other  kings  have  dis- 
tributed justice,  you  have  distributed  life. 
Other  kings  have  ruled  a  nation,  you  have 
created  nations.  Others  have  made  kingdoms, 
you  have  begotten  them.  Look  at  your  children, 
father."  And  he  stretched  his  hand  out  towards 
the  enemy. 

Auberon  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"See  how  splendidly,"  cried  Wayne,  "the  new 
cities  come  on — the  new  cities  from  across  the 
river.  See  where  Battersea  advances  over 
there — under  the  flag  of  the  Lost  Dog;  and 
Putney — don't  you  see  the  Man  on  the  White 
Boar  shining  on  their  standard  as  the  sun 
catches  it?  It  is  the  coming  of  a  new  age,  your 
Majesty.  Notting  Hill  is  not  a  common  em- 
pire; it  is  a  thing  like  Athens,  the  mother  of 
a  mode  of  life,  of  a  manner  of  living,  which 
shall  renew  the  youth  of  the  world — a  thing 
like  Nazareth.  When  I  was  young  I  remem- 
ber, in  the  old  dreary  days,  wiseacres  used  to 
write  books  about  how  trains  would  get  faster, 

280 


The  Last  Battle 


and  all  the  world  would  be  one  empire,  and 
tram-cars  go  to  the  moon.  And  even  as  a  child 
I  used  to  say  to  myself,  'Far  more  likely 
that  we  shall  go  on  the  crusades  again,  or 
worship  the  gods  of  the  city.'  And  so  it  has 
been.  And  I  am  glad,  though  this  is  my  last 
battle." 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  came  a  crash  of  steel 
from  the  left,  and  he  turned  his  head. 

"Wilson!''  he  cried,  with  a  kind  of  joy. 
"Red  Wilson  has  charged  our  left.  No  one 
can  hold  him  in;  he  eats  swords.  He  is  as  keen 
a  soldier  as  Turnbull,  but  less  patient — less 
really  great.  Ha!  and  Barker  is  moving. 
How  Barker  has  improved;  how  hand- 
some he  looks.  It  is  not  all  having  plumes; 
it  is  also  having  a  soul  in  one's  daily  life. 
Ha!" 

And  another  crash  of  steel  on  the  right 
showed  that  Barker  had  closed  with  Netting 
Hill  on  the  other  side. 

"Turnbull  is  there!"  cried  Wayne.  "See 
him  hurl  them  back!  Barker  is  checked! 
Turnbull  charges — wins!  But  our  left  is 
broken.  Wilson  has  smashed  Bowles  and 
Mead,  and  may  turn  our  flank.  Forward,  the 
Provost's  Guard !" 

And  the  whole  centre  moved  forward, 
281 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

Wayne's  face  and  hair  and  sword  flaming  in 
the  van. 

The  King  ran  suddenly  forward. 

The  next  instant  a  great  jar  that  went  through 
it  told  that  it  had  met  the  enemy.  And  right 
over  against  them  through  the  wood  of  their  own 
weapons  Auberon  saw  the  Purple  Eagle  of  Buck 
of  North  Kensington. 

On  the  left  Red  Wilson  was  storming  the 
broken  ranks,  his  little  green  figure  conspicuous 
even  in  the  tangle  of  men  and  weapons,  with 
the  flaming  red  moustaches  and  the  crown  of 
laurel.  Bowles  slashed  at  his  head  and  tore  away 
some  of  the  wreath,  leaving  the  rest  bloody, 
and,  with  a  roar  like  a  bull's,  Wilson  sprang  at 
him,  and,  after  a  rattle  of  fencing,  plunged  his 
point  into  the  chemist,  who  fell,  crying 
"Notting  Hill!"  Then  the  Notting  Hillers 
wavered,  and  Bayswater  swept  them  back  in  con- 
fusion. Wilson  had  carried  everything  before 
him. 

On  the  right,  however,  Turnbull  had  carried 
the  Red  Lion  banner  with  a  rush  against 
Barker's  men,  and  the  banner  of  the  Golden 
Birds  bore  up  with  difficulty  against  it. 
Barker's  men  fell  fast.  In  the  centre  Wayne 
and  Buck  were  engaged,  stubborn  and  confused. 
So  far  as  the  fighting  went,  it  was  precisely 

282 


The  Last  Battle 


equal.  But  the  fighting  was  a  farce.  For  behind 
the  three  small  armies  with  which  Wayne's 
small  army  was  engaged  lay  the  great  sea 
of  the  allied  armies,  which  looked  on  as  yet  as 
scornful  spectators,  but  could  have  broken  all  four 
armies  by  moving  a  finger. 

Suddenly  they  did  move.  Some  of  the  front 
contingents,  the  pastoral  chiefs  from  Shepherd's 
Bush,  with  their  spears  and  fleeces,  were  seen 
advancing,  and  the  rude  clans  from  Paddington 
Green.  They  were  advancing  for  a  very  good 
reason.  Buck,  of  North  Kensington,  was  sig- 
nalling wildly;  he  was  surrounded,  and  totally 
cut  off.  His  regiments  were  a  struggling 
mass  of  people,  islanded  in  a  red  sea  of  Notting 
Hill. 

The  allies  had  been  too  careless  and  confident. 
They  had  allowed  Barker's  force  to  be  broken 
to  pieces  by  Turnbull,  and  the  moment  that 
was  done,  the  astute  old  leader  of  Notting  Hill 
swung  his  men  round  and  attacked  Buck  behind 
and  on  both  sides.  At  the  same  moment  Wayne 
cried  "Charge!"  and  struck  him  in  front  like  a 
thunderbolt. 

Two-thirds  of  Buck's  men  were  cut  to  pieces 
before  their  allies  could  reach  them.  Then  the 
sea  of  cities  came  on  with  their  banners  like 
breakers,  and  swallowed  Notting  Hill  for  ever. 

283 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Tlill 

The  battle  was  not  over,  for  not  one  of  Wayne's 
men  would  surrender,  and  it  lasted  till  sundown, 
and  long  after.  But  it  was  decided ;  the  story  of 
Notting  Hill  was  ended. 

When  Turnbull  saw  it,  he  ceased  a  moment 
from  fighting,  and  looked  round  him.  The  even- 
ing sunlight  struck  his  face;  it  looked  like  a 
child's. 

"I  have  had  my  youth,"  he  said.  Then 
snatching  an  axe  from  a  man,  he  dashed  into 
the  thick  of  the  spears  of  Shepherd's  Bush, 
and  died  somewhere  far  in  the  depths  of  their 
reeling  ranks.  Then  the  battle  roared  on; 
every  man  of  Notting  Hill  was  slain  before 
night. 

Wayne  was  standing  by  a  tree  alone  after  the 
battle.  Several  men  approached  him  with  axes. 
One  struck  at  him.  His  foot  seemed  partly  to 
slip ;  but  he  flung  his  hand  out,  and  steadied  him- 
self against  the  tree. 

Barker  sprang  after  him,  sword  in  hand,  and 
shaking  with  excitement. 

"How  large  now,  my  lord,"  He  cried,  "is  the 
Empire  of  Notting  Hill  ?" 

Wayne  smiled  in  the  gathering  dark. 

"Always  as  large  as  this,"  he  said,  and 
swept  his  sword  round  in  a  semi-circle  of 
silver. 


The  Last  Battle 


Barker  dropped,  wounded  in  the  neck;  and 
Wilson  sprang  over  his  body  like  a  tiger-cat, 
rushing  at  Wayne.  At  the  same  moment  there 
came  behind  the  Lord  of  the  Red  Lion  a  cry 
and  a  flare  of  yellow,  and  a  mass  of  the  West 
Kensington  halberdiers  ploughed  up  the  slope, 
knee-deep  in  grass,  bearing  the  yellow  ban- 
ner of  the  city  before  them,  and  shouting 
aloud. 

At  the  same  second  Wilson  went  down 
under  Wayne's  sword,  seemingly  smashed 
like  a  fly.  The  great  sword  rose  again  like  a 
bird,  but  Wilson  seemed  to  rise  with  it,  and,  his 
sword  being  broken,  sprang  at  Wayne's  throat 
like  a  dog.  The  foremost  of  the  yellow  hal- 
berdiers had  reached  the  tree  and  swung  his 
axe  above  the  struggling  Wayne.  With  a 
curse  the  King  whirled  up  his  own  halberd  and 
dashed  the  blade  in  the  man's  face.  He 
reeled,  and  rolled  down  the  slope,  just  as  the 
furious  Wilson  was  flung  on  his  back  again. 
And  again  he  was  on  his  feet,  and  again 
at  Wayne's  throat.  Then  he  was  flung  again, 
but  this  time  laughing  triumphantly.  Grasped 
in  his  hand  was  the  red  and  yellow  favour 
that  Wayne  wore  as  Provost  of  Netting  Hill. 
He  had  torn  it  from  the  place  where  it  had  been 
carried  for  twenty-five  years. 

285 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

With  a  shout  the  West  Kensington  men 
closed  round  Wayne,  the  great  yellow  banner 
flapping  over  his  head. 

"Where  is  your  favour  now,  Provost?"  cried 
the  West  Kensington  leader. 

And  a  laugh  went  up. 

Adam  struck  at  the  standard-bearer  and 
brought  him  reeling  forward.  As  the  banner 
stooped,  he  grasped  the  yellow  folds  and  tore  off 
a  shred.  A  halberdier  struck  him  on  the  shoul- 
der, wounding  bloodily. 

"Here  is  one  colour!"  he  cried,  pushing  the 
yellow  into  his  belt;  "and  here!"  he  cried, 
pointing  to  his  own  blood,  "  Here  is  the 
other." 

At  the  same  instant  the  shock  of  a  sudden 
and  heavy  halberd  laid  the  King  stunned  or 
dead.  In  the  wild  visions  of  vanishing  conscious- 
ness, he  saw  again  something  that  belonged  to  an 
utterly  forgotten  time,  something  that  he  had 
seen  somewhere  long  ago  in  a  restaurant.  He 
saw,  with  his  swimming  eyes,  red  and  yellow, 
the  colours  of  Nicaragua. 

Quin  did  not  see  the  end.  Wilson,  wild  with 
joy,  sprang  again  at  Adam  Wayne,  and  the 
great  sword  of  Notting  Hill  was  whirled  above 
once  more.  Then  men  ducked  instinctively  at 
the  rushing  noise  of  the  sword  coming  down 

286 


The  Last  Battle 


out  of  the  sky,  and  Wilson  of  Bayswater  was 
smashed  and  wiped  down  upon  the  floor  like  a 
fly.  Nothing  was  left  of  him  but  a  wreck;  but 
the  blade  that  had  broken  him  was  broken.  In 
dying  he  had  snapped  the  great  sword  and  the 
spell  of  it ;  the  sword  of  Wayne  was  broken  at  the 
hilt.  One  rush  of  the  enemy  carried  Wayne  by 
force  against  the  tree.  They  were  too  close  to 
use  halberd  or  even  sword;  they  were  breast  to 
breast,  even  nostrils  to  nostrils.  But  Buck  got 
his  dagger  free. 

"Kill  him!"  he  cried,  in  a  strange  stifled 
voice.  "Kill  him!  Good  or  bad,  he  is  none 
of  us !  Do  not  be  blinded  by  the  face !  .  .  .  God ! 
have  we  not  been  blinded  all  along!"  and  he 
drew  his  arm  back  for  a  stab  and  seemed  to  close 
his  eyes. 

Wayne  did  not  drop  the  hand  that  hung  on 
to  the  tree-branch.  But  a  mighty  heave  went 
over  his  breast  and  his  whole  huge  figure, 
like  an  earthquake  over  great  hills.  And  with 
that  convulsion  of  effort  he  rent  the  branch 
out  of  the  tree,  with  tongues  of  torn 
wood.  And  swaying  it  once  only,  he  let  the 
splintered  club  fall  on  Buck,  breaking  his 
neck.  The  planner  of  the  Great  Road  fell 
face  foremost  dead,  with  his  dagger  in  a  grip  of 

steel. 

287 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

"For  you  and  me,  and  for  all  brave  men,  my 
brother,"  said  Wayne,  in  his  strange  chant, 
"there  is  good  wine  poured  in  the  inn  at  the  end 
of  the  world." 

The  packed  men  made  another  lurch  or 
heave  towards  him;  it  was  almost  too  dark 
to  fight  clearly.  He  caught  hold  of  the  oak 
again,  this  time  getting  his  hand  into  a  wide 
crevice  and  grasping,  as  it  were,  the  bowels 
of  the  tree.  The  whole  crowd,  numbering 
some  thirty  men,  made  a  rush  to  tear  him 
away  from  it;  they  hung  on  with  all  their 
weight  and  numbers,  and  nothing  stirred.  A 
solitude  could  not  have  been  stiller  than  that 
group  of  straining  men.  Then  there  was  a  faint 
sound. 

"His  hand  is  slipping,"  cried  two  men  in  exul- 
tation. 

"You  don't  know  much  of  him,"  said  another, 
grimly  (a  man  of  the  old  war).  "More  likely 
his  bone  cracks." 

"It  is  neither — by  God,  it  is  neither !"  said  one 
of  the  first  two. 

"What  is  it,  then  ?"  asked  the  second, 

"The  tree  is  falling,"  he  replied. 

"As  the  tree  falleth,  so  shall  it  lie,"  said 
Wayne's  voice  out  of  the  darkness,  and  it  had 
the  same  sweet  and  yet  horrible  air  that  it  had 

288 


The  Last  Battle 


had  throughout,  of  coming  from  a  great  distance, 
from  before  or  after  the  event.  Even  when  he 
was  struggling  like  an  eel  or  battering  like  a 
madman,  he  spoke  like  a  spectator.  "As  the 
tree  falleth,  so  shall  it  lie,"  he  said.  "Men  have 
called  that  a  gloomy  text.  It  is  the  essence 
of  all  exultation.  I  am  doing  now  what  I  have 
done  all  my  life,  what  is  the  only  happiness, 
what  is  the  only  universality.  I  am  clinging  to 
something.  Let  it  fall,  and  there  let  it  lie. 
Fools,  you  go  about  and  see  the  kingdoms  of 
the  earth,  and  are  liberal,  and  wise,  and  cosmo- 
politan, which  is  all  that  the  devil  can  give  you 
— all  that  he  could  offer  to  Christ  only  to  be 
spurned  away.  I  am  doing  what  the  truly  wise 
do.  When  a  child  goes  out  into  the  gar- 
den and  takes  hold  of  a  tree,  saying,  'Let 
this  tree  be  all  I  have/  that  moment  its  roots 
take  hold  on  hell  and  its  branches  on  the 
stars.  The  joy  I  have  is  what  the  lover 
knows  when  a  woman  is  everything.  It  is 
what  a  savage  knows  when  his  idol  is  every- 
thing. It  is  what  I  know  when  Notting  Hill 
is  everything.  I  have  a  city.  Let  it  stand  or 
fall." 

As  he  spoke,  the  turf  lifted  itself  like  a 
living  thing,  and  out  of  it  rose  slowly,  like 
crested  serpents,  the  roots  of  the  oak.  Then 

289 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

the  great  head  of  the  tree,  that  seemed  a 
green  cloud  among  grey  ones,  swept  the  sky 
suddenly  like  a  broom,  and  the  whole  tree 
heeled  over  like  a  ship,  smashing  every  one 
in  its  fall. 


ago 


CHAPTER    III — Two  Voices 

IN  a  place  in  which  there  was  total  darkness 
for  hours,  there  was  also  for  hours  total 
silence.  Then  a  voice  spoke  out  of  the 
darkness,  no  one  could  have  told  from  where,  and 
said  aloud — 

"So  ends  the  Empire  of  Netting  Hill.  As  it 
began  in  blood,  so  it  ended  in  blood,  and  all  things 
are  always  the  same." 

And  there  was  silence  again,  and  then  again 
there  was  a  voice,  but  it  had  not  the  same  tone;  it 
seemed  that  it  was  not  the  same  voice. 

"If  all  things  are  always  the  same,  it  is 
because  they  are  always  heroic.  If  all  things 
are  always  the  same,  it  is  because  they  are 
always  new.  To  each  man  one  soul  only  is 
given;  to  each  soul  only  is  given  a  little  power 
— the  power  at  some  moments  to  outgrow  and 
swallow  up  the  stars.  If  age  after  age  that  power 
comes  upon  men,  whatever  gives  it  to  them  is 
great.  Whatever  makes  men  feel  old  is  mean 
— an  empire  or  a  skin-flint  shop.  Whatever 
makes  men  feel  young  is  great — a  great  war 
or  a  love  story.  And  in  the  darkest  of  the 
books  of  God  there  is  written  a  truth  that  is 
also  a  riddle.  It  is  of  the  new  things  that  men 

291 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

tire — of  fashions  and  proposals  and  improve- 
ments and  change.  It  is  the  old  things  that 
startle  and  intoxicate.  It  is  the  old  things 
that  are  young.  There  is  no  sceptic  who  does 
not  feel  that  many  have  doubted  before.  There 
is  no  rich  and  fickle  man  who  does  not  feel  that 
all  his  novelties  are  ancient.  There  is  no 
worshipper  of  change  who  does  not  feel  upon 
his  neck  the  vast  weight  of  the  weariness  of 
the  universe.  But  we  who  do  the  old  things  are 
fed  by  nature  with  a  perpetual  infancy.  No  man 
who  is  in  love  thinks  that  any  one  has  been 
in  love  before.  No  woman  who  has  a  child 
thinks  that  there  have  been  such  things  as 
children.  No  people  that  fight  for  their  own  city 
are  haunted  with  the  burden  of  the  broken  em- 
pires. Yes,  oh  dark  voice,  the  world  is  always 
the  same,  for  it  is  always  unexpected." 

A  little  gust  of  wind  blew  through  the  night, 
and  then  the  first  voice  answered — 

"But  in  this  world  there  are  some,  be  they 
wise  or  foolish,  whom  nothing  intoxicates. 
There  are  some  who  see  all  your  disturbances 
like  a  cloud  of  flies.  They  know  that  while 
men  will  la,ugh  at  your  Notting  Hill,  and  will 
study  and  rehearse  and  sing  of  Athens  and 
Jerusalem,  Athens  and  Jerusalem  were  silly 
suburbs  like  your  Notting  Hill.  They  know  that 

292 


Two  Voices 


the  earth  itself  is  a  suburb,  and  can  feel  only 
drearily  and  respectably  amused  as  they  move 
upon  it." 

"They  are  philosophers  or  they  are  fools," 
said  the  other  voice.  "They  are  not  men.  Men 
live,  as  I  say,  rejoicing  from  age  to  age  in 
something  fresher  than  progress — in  the  fact 
that  with  every  baby  a  new  sun  and  a  new  moon 
are  made.  If  our  ancient  humanity  were  a 
single  man,  it  might  perhaps  be  that  he  would 
break  down  under  the  memory  of  so  many 
loyalties,  under  the  burden  of  so  many  diverse 
heroisms,  under  the  load  and  terror  of  all  the 
goodness  of  men.  But  it  has  pleased  God  so 
to  isolate  the  individual  soul  that  it  can  only 
learn  of  all  other  souls  by  hearsay,  and  to  each 
one  goodness  and  happiness  come  with  the 
youth  and  violence  of  lightning,  as  momentary 
and  as  pure.  And  the  doom  of  failure  that  lies 
on  all  human  systems  does  not  in  real  fact  affect 
them  any  more  than  the  worms  of  the  inevitable 
grave  affect  a  children's  game  in  a  meadow.  Not- 
ting  Hill  has  fallen ;  Notting  Hill  has  died.  But 
that  is  not  the  tremendous  issue.  Notting  Hill 
has  lived." 

"But  if,"  answered  the  other  voice,  "if  what 
is  achieved  by  all  these  efforts  be  only  the 
common  contentment  of  humanity,  why  do 

293 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

men  so  extravagantly  toil  and  die  in  them?  Has 
nothing  been  done  by  Notting  Hill  that  any 
chance  clump  of  farmers  or  clan  of  savages 
would  not  have  done  without  it?  What  might 
have  been  done  to  Notting  Hill  if  the  world 
had  been  different  may  be  a  deep  question; 
but  there  is  a  deeper.  What  could  have  hap- 
pened to  the  world  if  Notting  Hill  had  never 
been?" 

The  other  voice  replied — 

"The  same  that  would  have  happened  to  the 
world  and  all  the  starry  systems  if  an  apple-tree 
grew  six  apples  instead  of  seven;  something 
would  have  been  eternally  lost.  There  has 
never  been  anything  in  the  world  absolutely 
like  Notting  Hill.  There  will  never  be  any- 
thing quite  like  it  to  the  crack  of  doom.  I 
cannot  believe  anything  but  that  God  loved  it 
as  He  must  surely  love  anything  that  is  itself 
and  unreplaceable.  But  even  for  that  I  do  not 
care.  If  God,  with  all  His  thunders,  hated  it, 
I  loved  it." 

And  with  the  voice  a  tall,  strange  figure  lifted 
itself  out  of  the  debris  in  the  half-darkness. 

The  other  voice  came  after  a  long  pause,  and 
as  it  were  hoarsely. 

"But  suppose  the  whole  matter  were  really  a 
hocus-pocus.  Suppose  that  whatever  meaning 

294 


Two  Voices 


you  may  choose  in  your  fancy  to  give  to  it,  the 
real  meaning  of  the  whole  was  mockery.  Sup- 
pose it  was  all  folly.  Suppose — " 

"I  have  been  in  it,"  answered  the  voice  from 
the  tall  and  strange  figure,  "and  I  know  it  was 
not." 

A  smaller  figure  seemed  half  to  rise  in  the 
dark. 

"Suppose  I  am  God,"  said  the  voice,  "and 
suppose  I  made  the  world  in  idleness.  Suppose 
the  stars,  that  you  think  eternal,  are  only  the 
idiot  fireworks  of  an  everlasting  schoolboy. 
Suppose  the  sun  and  the  moon,  to  which  you 
sing  alternately,  are  only  the  two  eyes  of  one 
vast  and  sneering  giant,  opened  alternately  in  a 
never-ending  wink.  Suppose  the  trees,  in  my 
eyes,  are  as  foolish  as  enormous  toad-stools. 
Suppose  Socrates  and  Charlemagne  are  to  me 
only  beasts,  made  funnier  by  walking  on  their 
hind  legs.  Suppose  I  am  God,  and  having  made 
things,  laugh  at  them." 

"And  suppose  I  am  man,"  answered  the 
other.  "And  suppose  that  I  give  the  answer 
that  shatters  even  a  laugh.  Suppose  I  do  not 
laugh  back  at  you,  do  not  blaspheme  you,  do 
not  curse  you.  But  suppose,  standing  up 
straight  under  the  sky,  with  every  power  of  my 
being,  I  thank  you  for  the  fools'  paradise  you 

395 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

have  made.  Suppose  I  praise  you,  with  a  lit- 
eral pain  of  ecstasy,  for  the  jest  that  has 
brought  me  so  terrible  a  joy.  If  we  have  taken 
the  child's  games,  and  given  them  the  serious- 
ness of  a  Crusade,  if  we  have  drenched  your 
grotesque  Dutch  garden  with  the  blood  of 
martyrs,  we  have  turned  a  nursery  into  a 
temple.  I  ask  you,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  who 
wins  ?" 

The  sky  close  about  the  crest  of  the  hills 
and  trees  was  beginning  to  turn  from  black 
to  grey,  with  a  random  suggestion  of  the 
morning.  The  slight  figure  seemed  to  crawl 
towards  the  larger  one,  and  the  voice  was  more 
human. 

"But  suppose,  friend,"  it  said,  "suppose  that, 
in  a  bitterer  and  more  real  sense,  it  was  all  a 
mockery.  Suppose  that  there  had  been,  from 
the  beginning  of  these  great  wars,  one  who 
watched  them  with  a  sense  that  is  beyond  ex- 
pression, a  sense  of  detachment,  of  responsibility, 
of  irony,  of  agony.  Suppose  that  there  were  one 
who  knew  it  was  all  a  joke." 

The  tall  figure  answered — 

"He  could  not  know  it.  For  it  was  not  all  a 
joke." 

And  a  gust  of  wind  blew  away  some  clouds  that 
sealed  the  sky-line,  and  showed  a  strip  of  silver 

296 


WAYNE,  IT  WAS  ALL  A  JOKE' 


Two  Voices 


behind  his  great  dark  legs.  Then  the  other  voice 
came,  having  crept  nearer  still. 

"Adam  Wayne,"  it  said,  "there  are  men 
who  confess  only  in  articulo  mortis;  there  are 
people  who  blame  themselves  only  when  they 
can  no  longer  help  others.  I  am  one  of  them. 
Here,  upon  the  field  of  the  bloody  end  of  it 
all,  I  come  to  tell  you  plainly  what  you  would 
never  understand  before.  Do  you  know  who  I 
am?" 

"I  know  you,  Auberon  Quin,"  answered  the 
tall  figure,  "and  I  shall  be  glad  to  unburden  your 
spirit  of  anything  that  lies  upon  it." 

"Adam  Wayne,"  said  the  other  voice,  "of 
what  I  have  to  say  you  cannot  in  common 
reason  be  glad  to  unburden  me.  Wayne,  it 
was  all  a  joke.  When  I  made  these  cities,  I  cared 
no  more  for  them  than  I  care  for  a  centaur, 
or  a  merman,  or  a  fish  with  legs,  or  a  pig 
with  feathers,  or  any  other  absurdity.  When 
I  spoke  to  you  solemnly  and  encouragingly 
about  the  flag  of  your  freedom  and  the  peace 
of  your  city,  I  was  playing  a  vulgar  practical 
joke  on  an  honest  gentleman,  a  vulgar  prac- 
tical joke  that  has  lasted  for  twenty  years. 
Though  no  one  could  believe  it  of  me  perhaps, 
it  is  the  truth  that  I  am  a  man  both  timid  and 
tender-hearted.  I  never  dared  in  the  early  days 

297 


The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill 

of  your  hope,  or  the  central  days  of  your 
supremacy,  to  tell  you  this;  I  never  dared  to 
break  the  colossal  calm  of  your  face.  God 
knows  why  I  should  do  it  now,  when  my  farce 
has  ended  in  tragedy  and  the  ruin  of  all  your 
people!  But  I  say  it  now.  Wayne,  it  was  done 
as  a  joke." 
blew  the  sky  clearer  and  clearer,  leaving  great 

There  was  silence,  and  the  freshening  breeze 
spaces  of  the  white  dawn. 

At  last  Wayne  said,  very  slowly — 

"You  did  it  all  only  as  a  joke?" 

"Yes,"  said  Quin. 

"When  you  conceived  the  idea,"  went  on 
Wayne,  dreamily,  "of  an  army  for  Bayswater 
and  a  flag  for  Notting  Hill,  there  was  no  gleam, 
no  suggestion  in  your  mind  that  such  things 
might  be  real  and  passionate?" 

"No,"  answered  Auberon,  turning  his  round, 
white  face  to  the  morning  with  a  dull  and  splen- 
did sincerity ;  "I  had  none  at  all." 

Wayne  sprang  down  from  the  height  above 
him  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  will  not  stop  to  thank  you,"  he  said,  with 
a  curious  joy  in  his  voice,  "for  the  great 
good  for  the  world  you  have  actually  wrought. 
All  that  I  think  of  that  I  have  said  to  you  a 
moment  ago,  even  when  I  thought  that  your 

298 


Two  Voices 


voice  was  the  voice  of  a  derisive  omnipotence,  its 
laughter  older  than  the  winds  of  heaven.  But 
let  me  say  what  is  immediate  and  true.  You 
and  I,  Auberon  Quin,  have  both  of  us 
throughout  our  lives  been  again  and  again  called 
mad.  And  we  are  mad.  We  are  mad,  be- 
cause we  are  not  two  men  but  one  man.  We 
are  mad,  because  we  are  two  lobes  of  the  same 
brain,  and  that  brain  has  been  cloven  in  two. 
And  if  you  ask  for  the  proof  of  it,  it  is 
not  hard  to  find.  It  is  not  merely  that  you, 
the  humourist,  have  been  in  these  dark  days 
stripped  of  the  joy  of  gravity.  It  is  not  merely 
that  I,  the  fanatic,  have  had  to  grope  without 
humour.  It  is  that  though  we  seem  to  be  oppo- 
site in  everything,  we  have  been  opposite  like 
man  and  woman,  aiming  at  the  same  mo- 
ment at  the  same  practical  thing.  We  are 
the  father  and  the  mother  of  the  Charter  of 
the  Cities." 

Quin  looked  down  at  the  debris  of  leaves  and 
timber,  the  relics  of  the  battle  and  stampede, 
now  glistening  in  the  glowing  daylight,  and 
finally  said — 

"Yet  nothing  can  alter  the  antagonism — the 
fact  that  I  laughed  at  these  things  and  you  adored 
them." 

Wayne's  wild  face  flamed  with  something 
299 


The  Napoleon  of  dotting  Hill 

god-like,  as  he  turned  it  to  be  struck  by  the  sun- 
rise. 

"I  know  of  something  that  will  alter  that  an- 
tagonism, something  that  is  outside  us,  some- 
thing that  you  and  I  have  all  our  lives  per- 
haps taken  too  little  account  of.  The  equal  and 
eternal  human  being  will  alter  that  antagonism, 
for  the  human  being  sees  no  real  antagonism 
between  laughter  and  respect,  the  human  being, 
the  common  man,  whom  mere  geniuses  like 
you  and  me  can  only  worship  like  a  god. 
When  dark  and  dreary  days  come,  you  and  I 
are  necessary,  the  pure  fanatic,  the  pure  satirist. 
We  have  between  us  remedied  a  great  wrong. 
We  have  lifted  the  modern  cities  into  that  poetry 
which  every  one  who  knows  mankind  knows 
to  be  immeasurably  more  common  than  the 
commonplace.  But  in  healthy  people  there  is 
no  war  between  us.  We  are  but  the  two  lobes 
of  the  brain  of  a  ploughman.  Laughter  and  love 
are  everywhere.  The  cathedrals,  built  in  the 
ages  that  loved  God,  are  full  of  blasphemous  gro- 
tesques. The  mother  laughs  continually  at  the 
child,  the  lover  laughs  continually  at  the  lover, 
the  wife  at  the  husband,  the  friend  at  the 
friend.  Auberon  Quin,  we  have  been  too  long 
separated;  let  us  go  out  together.  You  have 
a  halberd  and  I  a  sword,  let  us  start  our 

300 


Two  Voices 


wanderings  over  the  world.    For  we  are  its  two 
essentials.    Come,  it  is  already  day." 

In  the  blank  white  light  Auberon  hesitated  a 
moment.  Then  he  made  the  formal  salute  with 
his  halberd,  and  they  went  away  together  into 
the  unknown  world. 


THE  END. 


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Helen  Pole  during  her  Sojourn  in  the  Great  North  Woods,  as 
spontaneously  recorded  in  her  Letters  to  her  Friend  in  North 
Britain,  the  Countess  of  Edge  and  Ross.  1 2  mo.  $1.50.  Twenty- 
Third  Thousand.  M 

The  Time  a:  "  Clever  and  entertaining.  .  .  .  This  gay  volume  is  written  by  soma  one 
with  a  pretty  wit,  an  eye  for  scenery,  and  a  mind  quick  to  grasp  natural  as  well  as 
individual  characteristics.  Her  investigations  into  the  A*"*"^"  character  are  acute 
as  well  as  amusing." 

Tke  St.  James's  Gtuette:  "We  feel  constrained  to  warn  our  readers  that  by 
rigorously  refusing  to  order  'The  Aristocrats'  from  the  library  they  will  prevent 
entrance  into  their  drawing-rooms  of  a  book  which  is  frank  almost  to  offence,  indecorous 
almost  to  naughtiness,  and  K>  funny  that  on  no  account  would  we  have  misted  it* 
fersuaL" 

The  Bookman  (New  York) :  "  One  of  the  cleverest  books  of  the  year." 
The  Onlooker:    "I  have  no  hesitation  in  recommending  it  strongly  to  my  readers' 
notice.  ...  It  contains  the  most  delicious  satire  and  the  brighest  writing  that  has 
been  published  for  a  long  time." 

SENATOR  NORTH,   izmo.    $1.50.     Thirtieth  Thousand. 

New  York  Herald:  "In  the  description  of  Washington  life  Mrs.  Atherton  shows 

not  only  a  very  considerable  knowledge  of  externals,  but  also  an  insight  into  the 

underlying  political  issues  that  is  remarkable." 

Chicago  Times-Herald:  "  Mrs.  Atherton  is  capable  of  dramatic  situations  of  great 

intensity." 

Outlook :  "The  novel  has  genuine  historical  value." 

Town  Topics  :  "  '  Senator  North '  is  a  book  that  every  American,  whether  interested 

in  the  society  life  of  the  capital  or  the  larger  life  of  the  men  who  make  the  laws,  should 

read.     It  is  the  strongest  political  novel  ever  written  by  an  A  merican.     As  a 

historic  novel  it  is  in  a  class  by  itself.    No  earnest  student  of  our  national  life  can 

afford  to  let  '  Senator  North  '  go  unread." 

Boston  Times, :  "  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  I  have  read  this  year,  and  it  is  thoroughly 

American." 

THE  CALIFORNIANS.  BY  GERTRUDE  ATHERTON.  izmo. 
$1.50. 

Daily  Chronicle!  "IHn.  Gertrude  Atherton  has  given  us  as  usual  a  clever,  brilliant 
and  interesting  piece  of  work,  full  of  brisk  epigrams,  vivid  turns  of  speech,  and 
effective  local  colour." 

Daily  Mail:  "  'The  Califbmians'  is  brilliant,  sharp,  and  vigorous,  as  was  to  be  ex- 
pected." 

British  Weekly :  "  Mrs.  Atherton  is  in  our  judgment  the  ablest  woman  writer  of 
fiction  now  living." 

Standard:  "That  Mrs.  Atherton  is  one  of  the  most  accomplished  novelists  of  her 
country  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt." 

PATIENCE  SPARHAWK  AND  HER  TIMES.  By 
GERTRUDE  ATHERTON.  izmo.  $1.50. 

Westminster  Gazette :    "  The  book  has  very  high  merits.    The  characters  are  all 

firmly  conceived  and  firmly  drawn." 

Literary  World:  "  It  is  scarcely  likely  that  any  one  who  commences  it  will  be  able  to 

throw  it  aside  unfinished." 

Globe  :  "  A  clever  and  significant  book." 

MR.  W.  L.  COUKTNSY  in  the  Daily  Ttlegrafh'.  "The  book  is oae  of  rare  prnmin 

and  uower.     A  novel  to  be  read." 


THE  CARDINAL'S  SNUFF-BOX 

By  HENRY  HARLAND 

Eighty- Fifth  Thousand 

The  North  Americans  "This  charming  love  story  is  as  delicate  as 
the  sunset  on  the  snow-covered  summits  of  his  Monte  Sfiorito,  as 
fragrant  with  the  breath  of  youth,  summer,  and  love  as  the  forest 
breeze  which  swept  into  the  Villa  Floriano." 

The  New  Ttrk  Tribune:  "  We  find  'The  Cardinal's  Snuff-Box' 
so  captivating,  a  book  so  good  that  we  want  it  to  be  perfect.  It  is 
a  book  to  enjoy  and  to  praise." 

The  Chicago  Times-Herald:  "The  chief  virtue  of  the  story  is  the 
freshness  and  idyllic  quality  of  the  manner  of  its  telling." 
The  Albany  Argus:  "  One  of  the  prettiest  love  stories  one  can  find 
in  searching  the  book-shelves  over.  .  .  .  There  are  few  books  that 
give  so  broad  and  beautiful  a  picture  of  the  Catholic  as  this  garden 
idyll." 

The  Boston  Herald:  "So  happily  flavored  with  witty  and  brilliant 
conversations,  and  so  full  of  charm  in  its  love  avowals  that  it  is 
utterly  irresistible.  .  .  .  Altogether  it  is  one  of  the  most  refreshing 
love  stories  of  modern  fiction." 
The  World  (London)  :  "  A  work  of  art." 
The  Spectator  (London)  :  "A  charming  romance." 
The  Star  (London)  :  "  My  admiration  leaves  me  breathless." 
The  Speaker  (London)  :   "  Mr.   Harland  has  achieved  a  triumph. 
.  .  .  The  most  delightful  book  the  spring  has  yet  brought." 
The  Times :    f<  A  book  among  a  thousand.'* 
The  Out  look:    "One   of  the   prettiest   love   stories  we  have 
chanced  upon." 

The  Globe :  "  One  of  the  lightest  and  brightest  of  stories  pub- 
lished for  many  a  long  day." 

The  St.  James  Budget:  "  One  of  the  brightest,  the  wittiest, 
and  the  cleverest  books  we  have  read  for  some  time." 


THE    LADY    PARAMOUNT 

By  HENRY   HARLAND 
Fifty-fifth    Thousand 

Tht  tfeiu  York  Commercial  Advertiser :  "  Delicate  and  dainty 
were  the  words  which  came  spontaneously  to  mind  when  reading 
'The  Cardinal's  Snuff-Box,'  and  equally  dainty  and  equally  deli- 
cate is  this  latest  product  of  Mr.  Harland's  nimble  imagination. 
Yet  it  is  a  fabric  which  promises  longer  endurance  than  many  of  the 
heavier  canvases  upon  which  his  contemporaries  have  painted  pon- 
derous pictures  of  historic  strife  and  bloodshed.  This  is  a  book 
full  of  sunshine  and  sparkle,  full  of  the  breath  of  outdoor  life  and 
the  hidden  beauties  of  nature,  and  pervaded  with  a  lyric  note  as 
blithe,  as  spontaneous,  and  as  irresponsible  as  the  song  of  the  sky- 
lark vanishing  in  the  azure  sky  above  the  old  town  of  Craford. 
Finally  it  is  a  book  without  a  shadow,  a  sorrow,  a  single  note  of 
gloom  or  cynicism  —  sovereign  remedy  for  a  despondent  mood." 

The  Chicago  Record-Herald :  "  Henry  Harland's  novels  possess  an 
atmosphere  of  joyousness  that  belongs  to  the  springtime  of  life  and 
love.  .  .  .  There  is  a  bouyancy,  a  joyousness  about  the  manner  in 
which  it  is  told  that  stimulates  like  a  spring  day.  You  think  of 
green  woods  and  dancing  nymphs  and  of  all  things  that  are  pretty 
and  happy  and  free  from  care.  We  predict  that  ' The  Lady 
Paramount*  will  be  a  prime  favorite  for  summer  reading.  It  is  free 
from  fatiguing  problems,  cheerful,  witty,  and  thoroughly  engaging." 

Tht  Baltimore  Sun :  "  '  The  Lady  Paramount '  has  all  the  bright- 
ness and  delicacy  that  made  popular  'The  Cardinal's  Snuff-Box,' 
and  than  this  we  could  hardly  give  it  higher  praise.  The  predom- 
inating feature  of  the  book  is  brilliancy  —  not  that  mere  cleverness 
which  is  at  first- attractive  and  then  wearisome,  but  a  constant  play 
of  light  and  shade,  a  delicate  dressing  of  thoughts  in  most  appro- 
priate and  yet  lightsome  words,  a  mingling  of  playful  wit  with  truth 
of  delineation  that  is  the  perfection  of  art  in  this  wise.  .  .  .  The 
most  brilliant  of  contemporary  novelists.  ...  It  is  the  brightest 
piece  of  fiction  that  we  have  read  in  many  moons,  and  one  of  the 
most  artistic  in  method  and  delicate  in  fancy  and  treatment." 

The  Ne<w  York  Times :  "  There  are  some  books  which  woo  one 
to  the  springtime.  Such  a  book  is  Henry  Harland's  latest  story, 
'The  Lady  Paramount.*  Enjoyment  of  it  would  not  be  complete 
unless  it  were  read  in  the  park,  under  the  trees,  or  while  idly  swing- 
ing in  a  hammock  in  some  sequestered  nook  of  the  piazza.  It  is 
fresh,  sweet,  and  pure — which,  on  the  whole,  is  now  rare  praise.'* 


The  International  Studio 

An   Illustrated    Magazine   of   Fine  and  Applied  Art 


Published  by  JOHN  LANE 

The  Bodley  Head 
67  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City 

35  cents  per  Month.     Annual  Supscription,  $3.50 

Three  Months'  Trial  Subscription,  $1.00 
Two  Specimen  Copies  sent,  post  free,  for  25  cents 

IT  is  the  aim  of  u  The  International  Studio'*  to  treat  of  every 
Art  and  Craft — Architecture,  Sculpture,  Painting,  Ceramics, 

Metal,  Glass,  Furniture,  Decoration,  Design,  Bookbinding, 
Illustrating,  Photography,  Lithography,  Enamel,  Jewelry,  Needle- 
work, Gardening,  etc.  The  principal  writers  on  Art  are  contri- 
butors to  its  pages.  Many  original  illustrations,  reproduced  in 
every  variety  of  black  and  white  process,  half-tone,  line,  photo- 
gravure, etc.,  are  to  be  found  in  each  number.  Color  plates 
of  real  value  are  to  be  found  in  every  issue.  No  magazine  can 
boast  a  more  artistic  and  sumptuous  get-up  than  "  The  Interna- 
tional Studio." 

Everyone  interested  in  Art,  professionally  or  otherwise, 
should  read  it ;  for  the  magazine  keeps  its  readers  au  fait  with, 
the  doings  of  the  art  world,  both  literary  and  technical. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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